The Path He Walks Alone
by TheSociopathsHaveTheBox
Summary: John's vision blurred as he tried to make eye-contact with Sherlock. In contrast to his, the detective's features were startlingly cool and complacent. He seemed not to register any emotion, though the bleeding wounds in his forearms spoke otherwise. (Warning: Self-Harm and other mature themes. Includes cussing and Johnlock. Read with caution.)
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hello readers! Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews this far. Since we are on hiatus due to our busy schedules, I have taken the liberty of fixing the format on our beginning chapters. Thank you so very much! Please enjoy the compiled version of our 11 chapter story, "The Path He Walks Alone". Please review!

•••

John was on his way to another job interview-the last place he'd worked at hadn't worked out-when his phone alerted him of a text. He sighed, knowing it was probably Sherlock asking for something to inconvenience him, but checked the message anyway.

'John, I can't open my pills. SH'

That wasn't exactly what he'd expected, but it was still hardly a valid reason for him to go all the way back to Baker Street.

'Sherlock, I'm busy. And we talked about this. No more drugs. You're quitting cold turkey. JW'

'I understand your assumption, however, these drugs are not recreational. They were prescribed to me by my doctor. SH'

Now, that was a pretty poor attempt at an excuse, even for him.

'What kind of idiot do you think I am? You don't take medication. You don't see doctors. You don't even leave the house to buy the bloody milk! JW'

'Mycroft threatened to finally give me all the knighthoods he "owes" me unless I saw a doctor. I decided to save myself that argument. Now, are you going to help me or not? SH'

Did the man really not understand that other people had lives, too?

'Ask Mrs. Hudson. JW'

'I tried shouting. She didn't hear me. SH'

'You are so lazy Sherlock. You know I'm on the other side of London?  
Whatever, like you even care. I'll leave as soon as I can. JW'

John quickly typed a second message.

'What do you need medication for, anyway? JW'

He could see that Sherlock started to write a response but stopped. A few minutes passed. John reached the address he'd been given as the location for his interview. He waited a few more minutes before walking inside and entering the elevator.

Still nothing.

Worried about his best friend, John typed out a another message.

'Sherlock? JW'

An almost instant response, like he'd been waiting:

'It's nothing. SH'

Sherlock admitting he needed help?That wasn't nothing. If it weren't important, he'd just as soon not take the medication as he would ask for help opening it.

'Sherlock, you can trust me. I'm your best friend, and besides I'm a doctor. I know this might be hard, but I want to help you. JW'

John waited a minute. Then another. Still no reply. John put his phone in his pocket deciding that Sherlock wouldn't answer his text and would most likely deny talking to him in the first place.

A second later his phone buzzed. Surprised, John grabbed his mobile out of his pocket and read the message.

'Depression. SH'

John blinked rapidly. Had he read that right?

'What? Is that a typo? JW'

John laughed to himself, of course it was a typo.

'No John, sadly it isn't. I've been suffering from depression for the past two years. SH'

His eyes widened in shock. Now John was worried. Sherlock was suffering from depression? He shook his head. This was certainly more important than his interview. He turned around left the building.

John hopped in a cab and texted Sherlock.

'I'm on my way. JW'

'No rush. SH'

Was he joking? John angrily typed out another message.

'Sherlock, we need to talk about this. Right now. JW'

How could he not have known about this? He was best friends with this man. How did he not notice!

'John I'm fine. Just come open this bloody bottle. SH'

'Save it. JW'

He wasn't in the mood to put up with Sherlock's "everything is fine" nonsense.

'It honestly isn't a big deal. SH'

John shouted at his phone, "Isn't a big deal? Isn't a big deal! Are you kidding me Sherlock? Are you kidding me! You have been depressed for two years and I haven't even noticed! I'm a bloody Doctor Sherlock! I should have noticed. You are my best friend for God's sake! Oh God Sherlock... I'm sorry. I am so sorry." He noticed a few strange looks from the people he passed but he didn't care.

All he typed was:

'Shut up. It IS a big deal. JW'

'I will be waiting. SH'

•••

John rushed outside and called a cab. "221B Baker Street. And step on it." He ordered the cab driver.

John drummed his fingers on the armrest. He should have noticed this sooner. Oh God... Why didn't he notice sooner? Granted, he was no Sherlock Holmes when it came to observation, but he lives with the man! He called himself a doctor, but he hadn't even been able to notice his best friend suffering from depression. The cab slowed down. "Could you hurry up!?" yelled John. He wasn't normally the type to be rude, but Sherlock was the only thing that mattered right then.

"Pull over!" John ordered, finally deciding he'd had enough of this slow driving. He quickly threw handfuls of money at the cabbie before leaping out of the car, determined to sprint the entire way home because it was faster.

•••

Meanwhile, Sherlock sat on the couch examining the bottle of pills in front of him, unsure of how to open it.

The door suddenly opened.

He dropped the bottle and looked up to see John standing in the doorway with a bead of sweat on his forehead, struggling to catch his breath. He'd run all the way. Why was this bothering John so much?

John slowly walked over to him "Sherlock, I'm so sor-"

•••

Sherlock stood and wrapped John in a hug, stopping him from talking. "Shut. Up." He whispered.

John nodded against Sherlock's shoulder.

After a few minutes Sherlock sat back down and spoke in his usual way, as though everything was normal. "John, go change."

"What?"

"You clearly just ran across London to get here, and stop looking at me like you couldn't possibly leave my side. I hardly think the world will end while you put on a jumper," he said all in one breath.

Nodding slowly, John backed up and walked to his room upstairs.

As John walked away, Sherlock glanced at his shirt sleeves making sure that John couldn't see the bandages wrapped tightly around his wrists. Good. They were still covered.

•••

A few minutes later, John came back downstairs and sat next to Sherlock on the couch. He opened the pill bottle with a twist and handed Sherlock his medication. He watched as Sherlock swallowed his pills, still slightly in shock that he'd never known.

'At least he's being truthful now. No more secrets.' He thought.

He exhaled slowly. "Sherlock, I know that wasn't easy for to tell me you have depression, but I'm glad you did. Now that I know, we can work together and fix this problem once and for all. Thank you for telling me."

Sherlock opened his mouth about to speak but stopped. If John found out... No. He wouldn't tell him. It would be better If John didn't know. He glanced again at his wrists for a second then quickly looked away.

Something was still off. "Sherlock, are you okay?" Asked John nervously.

•••

Sherlock cleared his throat and turned to look out the window, so he wouldn't have to meet John's gaze. He'd never had trouble lying, but it was getting harder to be untruthful with John. "I'm fine. I'm absolutely fine."

•••

Three months later, things seemed to be going well for the consulting detective and his blogger. Three months later was also the middle of the Christmas season.

John walked down from his bedroom and into the decked-red-and-green main room of the flat to find Sherlock standing among holly wreaths and crimson silk decorations, composing what seemed to be a combination of obscure Christmas carols.

John quickly became lost in the music. It sounded sweet, calm, and oddly it had a hint of sadness to it. Sadness... John took a deep breath as he remembered why he came down here in the first place. "Sherlock, You okay?" John asked his flatmate who was currently turned towards the mantle.

"Yes." He replied Sherlock in a monotone voice. Mentally he was screaming. Had John noticed? What was he going to do? He thought he'd done a fair job of hiding it this time.

He lowered his bow and turned towards John. "Why wouldn't I be?" He said with a small smile.

John gave a bitter laugh. He really did doubt that the man was human every once in a while. "Well, it's just..." He sucked in a deep breath. "You know, the case."

Sherlock felt relieved. John wasn't catching on after all. Sherlock turned around and started to play again. "I solved it, didn't I?"

John frowned. Was that really all he cared about? "A girl died, Sherlock."

"That could not be helped." Replied Sherlock quickly. He cringed at the thought of what happened.

•••

A girl, a mere child, had died because she had decided to investigate her bother's death instead of letting him and the rest of Scotland Yard look into it. Actually, she did come to them for help... at first. About an hour after she came to file a report the girl said she had to use the loo. Sherlock obviously knew that she was lying and was just going to leave. She was annoyed at the officers for not taking her seriously and for them not believing that there was someone out to get her and her family. The girl left before any of the other cops noticed.

She was shot as soon as she stepped out the door.

•••

John saw Sherlock tense up for a second. He most likely thought he was blaming him. "Sherlock, of course it couldn't be helped. It's not you fault or anything. You weren't the one to pull the trigger." John said trying to reassure his friend.

"I know it wasn't. That's what I said didn't I?" Said Sherlock trying to sound slightly annoyed. On the inside he was falling apart. It was all his fault and he knew it.

John sighed. Attempting to go down this road with Sherlock was always futile. He didn't know why he even bothered. "Right. Forget it. Look, I'm going gift shopping. I also need to stop by Harry's, so I'm most likely going to be gone a while."

"Mmm." Sherlock mumbled, as he did when he heard but wasn't listening to what someone had said.

"Okay."Said John as he closed the door behind him, making a little more noise than he needed to. Frowning to himself, John chased down a cab deciding that a bit of shopping would take his mind off things. Sliding into the back seat, he shook his head. It still baffled him, after all this time, that feeling no emotion whatsoever for other humans came so naturally to Sherlock. John knew that was just the way he was, but he could at least pretend to care a little.

•••

Sherlock waited until John's footsteps faded to set his violin down mid-song and throw himself onto the couch. He began to chew nervously on his lower lip. It had been such a horrible day.

That poor girl... Of course he noticed that she was going to leave. How on earth didn't everyone else? He'd been sure she would realize that if someone truly was trying to kill her, it would be safer to stay there. He assumed she would turn around as soon as she began to walk away.

She didn't of course.

Why hadn't he said something? That girl would still be alive if he had said something...

It had been a relatively long time since someone had died during a case if his. Even longer since he could have done something to prevent someone's death.

He'd nearly forgotten what this felt like. The guilt was like a black hole, slowly eating away at him from inside. It was so awful. The worst part of feeling this way, as he always did when he felt responsible for harm coming to someone else, was that he had to hide it.

No one, not even John, could think he had any concept of sympathy or sentiment. Emotions impaired mental function; that was just a fact. He would not allow anyone on Earth to think of him as anything but the highest level of intellect.

Unfortunately for him, that meant he was always alone when these waves of depression hit him. He was so very alone. He had been, his whole life, but it usually didn't bother him...

Sherlock involuntarily looked at his wrists, then began to stare around the room, searching.

He didn't want this to happen again, but physical pain was just so much easier to endure- and recover from- than emotional pain. All he needed was to distract his mind away from the death of the girl, if only for a little while.

He knew that Mycroft had sent in some people to confiscate his blades and dull their knives just in case, but there had to be something...

•••

The cabbie had taken John hardly a block from Baker Street when he noticed the distinct emptiness of his left pocket.

"Sorry, could you turn around, please? I accidentally left my mobile at home." John called up to driver. The driver immediately U-turned and began to take them back to the flat.

John hopped up the stairs and briskly stepped inside. "Sorry Sherlock, Forgot my mobile." he said before realizing he was speaking to an empty room.

"Hello?" He said unsure of the other man's whereabouts. Assuming that he was merely in the other room John bent down to grab his mobile from the table where it sat beside Sherlock's abandoned violin and- a pencil sharpener?

John stared at the hand-held sharpener confused. He only kept that one around in case the electric one broke.

Then he noticed the missing blade and the screw that usually held it in place lying beside the discarded violin bow.

No, it couldn't be.

He wouldn't.

"Sherlock?" Cried out John frantically.

•••

Sherlock, standing over the sink in the bathroom, heard John call his name from the other room. "No..." He muttered under his breath.

He said he would be out for a while! He thought angrily to himself.

Sherlock opened his hand, dropping the blade to the counter with a metallic clink. He quickly rolled down his sleeves trying to cover up his arms so he could attempt to get John out of the house again.

•••

John thought he heard a noise from the bathroom. "Sherlock?" He called again. When no reply came, he grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it open. What he saw shocked and terrified him to his core.

Sherlock stood facing him, a deep red liquid slowly seeping through his sleeves and crawling down his arm to the visible part of his wrist. Just as John had suspected, the blade from the pencil sharpener rested on the countertop, but not all of it was silver; the edge was stained with a deep crimson liquid.

John's vision blurred as he tried to make eye-contact with Sherlock. In contrast to his, the detective's features were startlingly cool and complacent. He seemed not to register any emotion, though the bleeding wounds in his forearms spoke otherwise.

John stepped slowly towards him, holding out his hands to take and examine Sherlock's arms.

"John-" Began Sherlock.

"Don't." Whispered John.

"I-" Began Sherlock once again.

"Don't!" Yelled John.

John closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

"My God Sherlock. How long has this been going on?" He muttered under his breath.

Instinctively acting as a doctor, he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt to better tend to his cuts.

He wasn't prepared for what he saw next.

Faint lines covered Sherlock's stomach and chest, and as he continued removing the shirt he saw the scars that also lined Sherlock's shoulders, back, arms, wrists. In some places single scars were not visible, only a patch of white scar tissue on Sherlock's skin.

Apparently, it had been going on for quite a while.

Without taking his eyes from the damaged man before him, John reached for the bandages that he stocked the medicine cabinet and began to wrap them around Sherlock's wrists.

Neither of them said a word as John stepped aside, motioning for Sherlock to get out of the bathroom.

•••

Sherlock silently cursed himself as he walked out into the living room.

This was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid. He knew how John would feel about it and all he'd wanted was to spare his friend the pain. He knew that in that moment, it was hurting John more than it was him. Even so, the tears began to spill onto his cheeks as he sat gingerly on the couch.

•••

John sat beside Sherlock, barely able to think straight. How could this happen? How could he not have known, for so long? Sherlock, his best and only friend, had been living like this for years and he'd been completely unaware of it! He should have been able to tell, should've been helping! It should have been his job to get Sherlock through it, and he hasn't even been there for him!

He was unable to speak, but could clearly read the message in Sherlock's eyes. His bloodshot eyes that revealed pain, sorrow, remorse, and worst of all shame.

•••

Barely able to speak, Sherlock chocked out a few words. "I'm so sorry. But it's okay. It will all be okay. And it's a conversation for another time."

•••

John decided to accept that last part. Another time. Another time they would talk. For now, he needed to make sure Sherlock was safe.

Without another thought, John crawled on the couch until he was practically sitting in Sherlock's lap. He collapsed onto the other man's shoulder, sobbing.

It took him a few moments to realize that Sherlock had thrown his arms around him and even more to realize he was crying with him. Neither of them could have said how long they sat there, holding each other as though nothing else in the world mattered.

•••

John woke up on the couch the next morning unable to remember the previous night. A few thoughts drifted through his mind, but when one of them involved Sherlock crying he wrote them all off as a dream.

Half-awake, John stumbled into the bathroom. He jumped at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were swollen beyond recognition due to a large amount of crying apparently.

It hit him like a tidal wave. Last night had all been real.

Lowering his eyes to the sink, he was suddenly struck by the absence of the pencil sharpener blade. He remembered that it had been sitting on the counter last night before they went in the living room.

John's stomach dropped and his eyes widened in realization.

"Sherlock?!" He cried out.

•••

Dead silence met John's panicked cry.

"Sherlock!" He called again, and again received no response. Now genuinely beginning to fear for his flatmate's safety, he tried to convince himself that Sherlock was simply still asleep, or out to get the shopping, or doing anything at all but the one thing his mind kept leading him back to.

John quickly spun away from the mirror in order to continue his search for Sherlock. He shuddered as images of a broken, bleeding Sherlock appeared in his mind. As soon as he shook one away image away in horror, another would appear to take it's place.

Sherlock with the scars that seemed to cover his entire body.

Sherlock dragging a razor blade across his skin.

Sherlock hanging by a rope from the ceiling.

Sherlock beside an empty pill bottle.

Sherlock lying with deeply slashed wrists, his eyes glazed over

No.

He was overreacting. He was scaring himself over nothing. Surely, any moment now Sherlock would walk in, find John searching for him, and ask what he was doing.

Yet his search became more and more desperate as his mind plagued him with the fear of discovering Sherlock dead.

After enduring twenty minutes of pure terror, John had made what seemed to be his hundredth round through the rooms of the flat. He finally had to admit that, whatever had happened, that Sherlock was not there.

He finally found himself back where he'd started. As John lowered himself to sit on the couch, his eyes fell upon a small folded sheet of paper that rested on the corner of the table. He must not have noticed it earlier.

'Dr. John Watson' was scrawled across the top in writing similar to, but a little neater than Sherlock's almost childish hand. A bit confused, and still racked with worry, John carefully picked it up and unfolded it.

'I thought I asked you to look after my little brother, Dr. Watson,' the note read, 'However, this seems to be too difficult a task for you. After careful examination of the feeds from several of Baker Street's security cameras, I have realized that Sherlock's condition has not improved in your company. I have decided to take matters into my own hands. You needn't worry about Sherlock; I have taken him to one of London's top self-harm rehabilitation centers, despite his refusal to accept any help offered by me. Unfortunately, it may be a while before he returns to live at 221B with you. I just thought you should be informed that it will most likely be a lengthy absence considering how difficult Sherlock is to work with. You might not see him for some time.

Oh, and I have taken the liberty of removing potentially triggering objects from your home in preparation of his eventual return. I highly advise you to avoid purchasing these items again. I do apologize if you needed that paring knife.

-MH'

Once John's initial relief at finding that Sherlock was alive and relatively well had lessened, he became rather annoyed with Mycroft. Actually, the longer he thought about it, the angrier he became at the man who thought he had the right or the authority to do something like that.

So what if he was the entire British government? This was Sherlock's problem, and he was definitely old enough to handle it himself, without his big brother. The fact that Mycroft would take his brother into rehab without John's knowledge or Sherlock's consent was absolutely outrageous. John sat down slowly as he tried to remember everything he knew about rehabilitation centers.

A month, at the shortest. That was how long self-harm rehab lasted. Ninety to a hundred days of continued supervision at the hospital once his treatment was over. Sherlock went nearly mad if he went an entire afternoon without a case to work on, so there was no possible way the man would stay sane for over ninety days. What the hell was Mycroft thinking?

Not to mention, John certainly wouldn't like being away from him so long, but that was beside the point.

Knowing Sherlock, that sort of environment would likely just make him worse. Honestly, how could Sherlock's own brother think that would help him? John clenched his fists at the thought of what Sherlock would endure at rehab.

John stood up and quickly walked over to his computer to research. He would not sit back and let Mycroft take control of Sherlock's life. He had to find a way to get him out.

•••

Sherlock opened his eyes to find himself on what seemed to be a hospital bed in a plain white room, his head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton. He knew this feeling, and it took him a bare fraction of a second to realize that not only had someone had the nerve to bring him to a rehab center, but they'd drugged him in order to get him there.

He said "someone", but who else would it be?

Mycroft had gone too far this time.

•••

After researching for about an hour, John finally found the place Sherlock had most likely been taken to. As the cab pulled up to the hospital, he silently prayed that his plan would work.

"Can I help you?" Asked the overly perky secretary as he stepped into the main room.

John swallowed and took a deep breath. "Yes, can you check if there's a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes here?" John said as he looked around at the sterile white walls of the obsessively organized room. Oh yes, Sherlock would hate it here.

"Mr. Holmes was admitted this morning." She replied without needing to check the records. She blushed a little at the thought of the handsome man she saw earlier.

"Right. I'm checking him out of here." John was glad he'd phrased it that way. It would have been too easy to take it another way, otherwise...

"Patients may only be checked out by family." The nurse informed him apologetically, apparently assuming that John and Sherlock could not be related.

Okay, time to edit the truth a bit. He hadn't wanted it to get to that point, but hoping it wouldn't had been a stretch.

"We're married." He bluntly stated. Not his best performance, but he was nervous about the whole thing.

The nurse blinked. "I'm sorry?" She asked, smiling, as though she really hadn't heard him.

John took a breath to steady himself. "I am family; Sherlock Holmes is my husband." God, he never thought he'd hear himself say that. "Now would you please release him?"

"Oh, of course. My apologies." The nurse handed him a clipboard with some paperwork and a pencil. "Just fill these out, and I'll have someone bring him down." She said as she studied John.

John's adrenaline slowly went away as he sat to fill out the papers. It had worked.

•••

Sherlock stepped out of his mind palace and opened his eyes when he heard someone come into the room.

"Your... husband has released you. Come with me," the young woman said with only a slight pause. Sherlock brought his hands down from under his chin and sat up, hiding his confused thoughts as he tried to work the situation out.

What was going on?

•••

John handed the paperwork back to the woman at the desk and within a few minutes the door opened.

Another nurse stepped out, with Sherlock following close behind, looking his usual self. Well, perhaps a bit more annoyed.

Obviously he hadn't known about what John had been planning to do, but luckily he seemed to catch on.

John asked if he was ready to leave.

"Oh God yes."

John surprised a smile, and the two of them walked out the door.

•••

The moment Sherlock entered the waiting room and saw John, it made sense. Of course it was him; John wouldn't just let Mycroft take hold of their lives.

As they left the building, something began to sink in. It was intriguing to him that, of all things, that was the lie John had chosen to use.

"Your husband".

Why did that sound less awkward to him, now that he knew who it was?

•••

John climbed after Sherlock into the back seat of the cab, wondering why there seemed to be an uncomfortable tension in the air. They had just narrowly avoided having Mycroft screw up their lives; that was a good thing.

Then he remembered the part where he'd said that they were married.

Oh.

Maybe it did make a sense for things to be a little awkward.

Well, it wasn't as if Sherlock cared what people thought. He never had. John, on the other hand, would usually have been bothered by doing something like that, even for a few minutes.

Oddly, he didn't mind the idea at all.

•••

When they arrived back home, Sherlock immediately turned to go to his room, without saying a word.

"Nope," John called after him. Sherlock looked back at John with a confused look on his face.

"Sherlock, we need to talk about this." Continued John.

Seeing that he had no way out, Sherlock sighed, nodded, and dropped onto the couch. John took a seat beside him and looked at him expectantly.

Sherlock took a deep breath and began to explain about when his depression had begun, and the way he felt so responsible whenever anything happened to someone during one of his cases.

Nearly an hour later, when they seemed to have barely scratched the surface of the issue, the front door swung open and with no warning, Mycroft barged in.

Sherlock greeted him with, "Seventy three minutes. You're getting slower, brother."

Mycroft scowled at him, and said in that tight, angry voice that somehow still sounded completely calm. "Sherlock, when will you understand that I do these things with only your best interests in mind? I do everything I can to try to help you, but you fight any aid I offer just to spite me. Truly, it will never fail to amaze me that you can manage to be so stubborn, foolish, and-"

"Oh, come off it already, Mycroft!" John shouted, rolling his eyes.

There was a remarkably loud silence.

Mycroft and Sherlock looked at him with the same surprised expression.

Though John obviously felt and showed more emotion than the Holmes brothers ever did, not once had either of them seen him lose his temper.

Mycroft began to speak. "John, we both know why I'm doing this. Sherlock needs serious medic-"

"Shut up!" Exclaimed John leaping off the couch. "Don't think you can control our lives, because you can't! Stop doing what you THINK is best for Sherlock, because IT IS NOT UP TO YOU! Let people deal with their problems on their own! You think that your leadership of the British government and the secret service and the bloody CIA gives you the right to do whatever the hell you want. Well, not in this flat! As far as I'm concerned the only person who should be involved with what Sherlock is going through is myself, and even I would keep out of it if he asked me to. None of it is any of your damn business, and if I were you, I'd take that 'I'm the all-knowing all-seeing god' attitude of yours and stick it up your arse! Leave him alone!" John sat back down on the couch and crossed his arms over his chest defiantly.

There was a moment of absolute silence before Mycroft simply nodded to himself and left as unceremoniously as he'd arrived.

•••

Completely in shock, Sherlock turned his gaze to John as soon as the door shut behind Mycroft. John never yelled like that.

John had defended him. Nobody had ever done that.

Ever.

Actually, nobody had ever seemed to care for him at all before he John came into his life.

"Explain," Sherlock ordered.

"What do you mean?" Replied John. He was stalling. Sherlock thought he could probably have found a more subtle way to do so.

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock asked again, as if that hadn't been clear. "Why did you shout like that? Why waste energy on ranting like that to Mycroft, of all people? And as long as we're on the subject of your odd behavior, why did you say at the center that we were married?"

John sighed. Sherlock might be the most intelligent person he had ever met, but sometimes he was completely oblivious to the simplest of things.

"You really don't get it at all, do you, Sherlock? I shouted at Mycroft because I care about you. Oh, shut up Sherlock, and let me finish." He said as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

John continued."I don't know what you think we are, or what I mean to you, but you are important to me. I don't like hearing people put you down, even if its your own brother. I couldn't for the life of me explain why I care so much when you don't give a damn about it yourself, but I do. So there. And as for at the hospital, I was only doing whatever I could to get you out of there, so stop thinking it meant something."

Sherlock decided not to point out that it would have worked just as well had John said he was his half-brother, or cousin, or in fact any other relative.

"Oh, come now, John. You don't know why you care? If you don't, who does?"

It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't seen it- it had become apparent to him quite a while ago- he just wanted to see how close John would get to admitting it.

John bit the inside of his lip and stared at Sherlock indignantly.

"You're my best friend, and honestly my only real friend. And you mean a lot to me. Now drop it; don't think you're off the hook. Are you alright?" John said with a slight tremor in his voice.

Sherlock certainly did not plan on letting it go. But, he could humor John and drop it for the time being.

•••

He resumed his 'confession', and John listened attentively for quite a long time. Sherlock appreciated that. He could tell that John was genuinely interested and wasn't just pretending to listen.

During their talk, Sherlock also admitted to the obvious drug addiction he'd had for countless years and was only just beginning to recover from. When he neared the end of the lengthy explanation, he paused.

"I'm sorry I never told you, John." He said in a softer voice. "I just- I know how I'd feel if what's been happening to me was happening to you. I didn't want to put you through that."

Sherlock then noticed that John was oddly quiet. Most likely tired, he thought as he glanced at the clock. He hasn't realized it had gotten so late.

John grew silent; he was touched. He supposed that he'd simply thought Sherlock had never talked about his problem because of his pride and reluctance to discuss, or admit he had, feelings.

It turned out Sherlock had been trying to protect him. That was... sweet.

John hasn't realized he was tired, but he suddenly felt himself nodding off and closing his eyes.

•••

Sherlock decided it would be best to let the man sleep. Sherlock stood up, grabbed the Union Jack pillow, gently placed it under John's head, and laid a blanket over him.

He thought about the things John had said, all of which confirmed his suspicions.

The strangest part was the way he himself felt about that realization.

He had always known John felt that way, but it never occurred to him that it might not be only John.

Gently sitting on the arm of the sofa, he whispered to the sleeping man before him. "All right, my turn. You don't know how I feel about you? You are the only person whose company I enjoy. The only person who can also stand to be around me. You are my closest, and only, friend, and you mean the world to me. You mean more than words could say. I would do anything for you, and I don't know what I would possibly do without you."

He laughed, realizing that he was just taking the long way of saying what he meant. He leaned over to pull the blanket to John's chin and smooth his hair. Technically, John had never said it, but it had been plain as day in his words nevertheless.

"I love you too, you idiot." Whispered Sherlock, before lightly pressing his lips to John's forehead.

Then Sherlock rose again and sleepily dragged himself to his bedroom.

•••

It took tremendous willpower for John to refrain from smiling until Sherlock had walked away, but he has to. Sherlock thought he was asleep. John slowly turned his head towards the direction of Sherlock's bedroom door.

"I love you Sherlock."

And with that, he rolled back over and fell asleep.

•••

John did not open his eyes when he woke the next morning. Letting himself revel in the memories of the previous night, so much nicer than the night that had come before it, he burrowed his face into the red white and blue of the Union Jack and smiled.

"Good morning," came Sherlock's voice from the opposite side of the room.

John's slowly opened his eyes and peeked above the pillow to see Sherlock sitting in a chair with John's laptop rested on his knees. He was fully dressed, looking ready to go out somewhere, and his eyes remained intently fixed on the screen.

"How did you know I was-" John began in a strained, tired voice.

And, of course, Sherlock cut him off.

"People don't realize how different waking and sleeping breath patterns are. Even if they're trying, no one's breathing ever sounds the same when they're awake as when they're asleep. Get dressed." Sherlock said bluntly.

"Why?" John often had trouble keeping up with Sherlock's tendency to suddenly change topics with no transition of any kind.

"Oh, right," Sherlock said, as if he'd forgotten that other people didn't just hear his thoughts and automatically understand what he was talking about, "we're going out for breakfast."

They were going to go eat? Sherlock went days on end without going near food. If John didn't remind him and force him to eat every once in a while, there would be a serious possibility that Sherlock would accidentally starve himself to death. And the man was suggesting they go get breakfast?

John thought it best not to question it as he went to his bedroom to change.

•••

"So, where are we going?" John called to Sherlock, pulling a jumper over his head.

"Just to the café next door." He responded. He sounded much closer than John had expected, and when John stepped out of his closet he saw Sherlock leaning directly next to the door.

Sherlock tried to discretely slip something behind his back, but John saw it first.

"Sherlock, Were you reading my text messages?" Asked John slowly.

Sherlock just shrugged and handed John his phone.

John glanced down. Sherlock had been reading all his messages to his previous girlfriends.

Okay, now John was confused. First Sherlock watched him sleep, actually wants to eat food, read his text messages, and now he stands outside his door while changing?

A week ago this all would have seemed incredibly awkward. It still wasn't exactly what John would call normal, but he honestly didn't care.

•••

"And why the sudden urge to actually eat food, like a person?" he asked, closing the door as he walked out to stand beside Sherlock in the hall.

The other man shrugged, "I suppose you could call it a celebration. Of sorts."

"What are we celebrating?" John was beginning to get annoyed that he had to ask so many questions. Not that talking to Sherlock was ever simple.

"My not having to stay in rehab. Or, Mycroft having someone actually stand up to him after all these years, or the beginning of my recovery. You can take your pick." Sherlock said with a small smile.

'Or our finally realizing and admitting how we feel about each other' the subtext screamed.

John nodded, "Alright. 'Kay, then." and stepped out the door that Sherlock held open for him.

•••

The two of them slid into seats opposite each other at a table in Speedy's. A waitress dressed in plain clothes with a tag reading "Rachel" pinned to her shirt set down menus in front of them and told them to let her know when they were ready to order.

John opened one of the menus out of habit, but it took a moment for him to actually start reading what he was seeing.

His peripheral vision caught Sherlock looking at him over the panels of laminated paper and opening his mouth as if to say something.

•••

Mycroft sat at an unnecessarily ornate desk in his office, closing his eyes and massaging his temples.

Last night had not gone quite as planned. What bothered him the most was that he knew every single person who he'd assigned to monitoring Sherlock had been watching the feed when the doctor had lost his temper and been so very disrespectful. That really didn't help his image.

"It would be a shame if the Baker Street feed from two nights ago was somehow leaked to the press," he mused, seemingly to himself, just loud enough for his secretary to hear.

The beautiful woman known to John Watson as Anthea tilted her head ever so slightly in a barely recognizable nod and began to type a new message into her mobile.

•••

John laid the menu down to give his attention to Sherlock as the man began to speak.

"John, I just wanted to say-" but he didn't have time to finish that thought, because out of nowhere a swarm of reporters carrying either recorders or notepad and pen came crashing through the door of the little café and rushed straight to their table to bombard Sherlock with questions.

So many voices chattering on at the same time made deciphering any one individual question absolutely impossible. John managed to pick out "cutting" and "rehab" among the jumble of words.

Sherlock dropped his head to his hands and pinched the bridge of his nose, appearing to be merely frustrated by the press, but John saw a single tear slide down his cheek.

It was too much for him.

"Alright, that's enough!" John had to shout just to be audible over the din of eager voices.

A few of the journalists began to direct their questions at him, and he practically screamed, "No comment! Now can't you just leave him alone?"

They took no notice of his request whatsoever. "Okay, that really wasn't a question. Leave him alone! Go away, all of you! Bugger off!" But he might as well have been speaking another language for all the attention they paid him.

Sighing in annoyance, John grabbed Sherlock's hand and stood, and the two of them fought their way through the sea of paparazzi.

•••

After what seemed an eternity, they were finally able to slam their front door shut and have relative peace again.

Now that they were behind closed doors, Sherlock broke down into tears and fell onto the couch, sobbing quietly.

John took only a moment to lock the door behind them before joining Sherlock.

•••

The man laying faced down across both cushioned seats, his chin planted on his hands as the tears streamed down his expressionless face, left very little room for John.  
He instead sat on the arm of the couch and placed a hand on his friend's arm.

"Sherlock," he began softly.

Looking up, Sherlock reached to wrap his arms around John's waist, and he pulled John down onto the seat beside him. He buried his face in John's jumper, his entire body shaking as he cried.

John put his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, and remained completely silent for a while.

He knew that Sherlock was not just crying over what had happened at breakfast, though he was sure that incident had only brought back the thoughts and memories he'd been trying to avoid; the man had years of emotional baggage that he had never come to terms with. And he thought he had the blood of dozens of people on his hands.

So, John would not be crying with him, this time, as much as it pained him to see Sherlock like this. Now he had to be strong, for Sherlock, and let Sherlock know that he would make sure everything was okay.

•••

Sherlock didn't like crying in front of people, and he'd certainly had enough experience hiding it that it would have been easy to keep from crying then, if he'd wanted to, but this was John.

It was about time Sherlock released all of the shame and guilt, bitterness and sadness that had been weighing down his heart for the past few years, and he would never feel comfortable doing so around anyone else.

•••

"Sherlock," John again started what he'd been trying to say before, "I promise you everything will be all right. I'll make sure of that."

Sherlock didn't believe that things could possibly be all right ever again, but John's voice reassured him so he didn't say anything.

"We can get through this, together," John continued, "I don't know how those reporters found out about it-"

"Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled.

Oh, of course. John really did hate that man.

"Right. Well, look, they'll get over it soon enough. As long as we just lay low for a while, they shouldn't be a problem." Of course, that wasn't the only issue. John stroked Sherlock's hair as he thought of the other problem.

"It's not your fault, you know. It's never been your fault, when those people die."

Sherlock's sobs were broken by what almost sounded like a laugh.

"It's not!" John insisted, as Sherlock's crying slowly came to a stop, "You can't keep doing this to yourself. What happened to those people, it's not on you. And when you feel like it is, you can't just keep it to yourself, okay?" He tucked a lock of Sherlock's hair behind his ear. "You aren't alone in this."

As Sherlock looked up into John's eyes, he began to think that, maybe, things could get better.

•••

Sherlock Holmes was such a great man, John thought. Actually, he was a good man. He really was.

"I will always be here for you." John whispered, though what he meant was 'I love you'.

Sherlock loved him too, of course. If only the stubborn fool were able to say it to his face.

•••

Sherlock nearly laughed as he realized that John thought he couldn't read that subtext.

•••

"I will always marvel at the way no one ever puts the simplest ideas together to understand something. Do you remember what I said about breathing patterns being so easily distinguishable?" Sherlock said with a smug grin on his face.

John blinked in surprise; he was going back to that?

But suddenly it made sense.

Sherlock had known he was awake when he said...

"Oh," John whispered.

Sherlock smiled at him. "You know, I never minded being alone, before. Now I can't imagine being without you."

John swung his legs up to rest beside Sherlock's on the couch. "I love you."

"Yes, I know, idiot," Sherlock laughed as he sat up and gently laid his lips on John's.

John grabbed the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him closer for a moment. His eyes fluttered open when Sherlock pulled away, and he smiled.

Sherlock leaned forward and whispered, "I love you, too."

•••

Sunlight crawled through Sherlock's bedroom window and lit up John's eyelids. Slowly, lazily, he opened them to see Sherlock's peaceful face pressed into his pillowcase.

It was unusual for Sherlock to get a normal amount of sleep, but he hadn't slept much, if at all, over the past few days.

John rolled out from under Sherlock's arm, which was draped over him, feeling unusually cool against his bare skin. He smirked as he thought that maybe there was something to his 'not entirely human' theory.

The moment Sherlock's arm hit the mattress, his eyes snapped open. That man was an annoyingly light sleeper. As John pulled on his pants, Sherlock brought his arms behind his head and asked, "Where are you going?"

"Unfortunately, in to work," John responded, yawning, "I've missed too many days in a row. According to company policy, if I'm out today, I'll get fired." Damn his boring office job.

"I don't see why you even care." It was plain to Sherlock how much John disliked working there.

He supposed that a part time job was easier when someone was always running around with him to crime scenes, but not all doctors worked full time. John would have preferred something like that. He wasn't meant to sit in a cubicle.

"Neither do I," John said as he walked around to Sherlock's side of the bed and kissed him, "See you later."

•••

John gave a sigh of relief when he looked at the clock for what was probably the thirtieth time in five minutes and saw that it was finally time for him to leave. He quickly grabbed his things, pushed back his chair, and practically sprang into the lift, just behind his boss, Erin.

"Dr. Watson," she nodded at him without looking up from her phone.

"Uh, hi," John wasn't sure why he was scared of the woman. Although, between the way she acted and spoke, her form-fitting clothes, and her dark, pinned up hair, she certainly did remind him of someone he didn't particularly like to think about.

"Listen, I wanted to apologize for missing so many days recently. It's just-" Said John apologetically.

"Oh, don't worry about it," she cut him off, "It's not as if I ever actually listen to that pointless rule about firing employees who miss too many days." She replied with a smile.

The thing was, John knew she had in fact fired several people for missing the maximum amount of days.

As the lift opened its doors to let them out on the bottom floor, he couldn't help wondering what kind of game she was playing at.

They went in separate directions once they'd walked out the door, and John tried to hail a cab.

"Could I give you a ride?" Erin called to him while she unlocked her car's front door.

"No, that's fine. Wouldn't want to trouble you." John had no desire whatsoever to ride in a car with that woman all the way back to the flat.

"Where do you live?" She asked, leaning her weight on the open car door.

"Baker Street." John replied unsure of what she was doing. He didn't like where this was going...

"It's on my way," And there it was; the final sentence. He had no choice. "And I won't charge you," she joked.

He tried to smile, and thanked her before abandoning his attempt to get a taxi and going to sit in the passenger seat.

•••

Eventually, quite some time after John had left, Sherlock went downstairs and curled up in his chair with John's laptop. When he pulled up a browser, one of the picture that accompanied the news excerpts scrolling across the bottom of the screen caught his eye. It was a picture of him. Actually, it was the hat picture, which did not make him too happy.

"Consulting Detective Begs for Attention" the headline announced. Even knowing he should ignore it, Sherlock couldn't help clicking the 'read more' arrow beside the photograph of him in that ridiculous ear flap hat.

•••

"Early this morning, an anonymous source released a shocking tape of Sherlock Holmes to BBC News. The tape's contents reveal that the well-known consulting detective has a self harming problem, and presumably has had one for some time.

Many speculate that this is yet another in a long line of seeming attempts to gain attention from the press and the people. Some have brought up the question of suicide attempts, and whether-"

He stopped reading and scrolled down to the comments people had left on the article.

"He's such an arrogant bastard. I don't want to read about his personal shit. Write something else."

"Suicide attempts my arse! It's attention-seeking rubbish!"

"Who'd miss him, anyways?"

•••

Sherlock quickly closed that window and set the laptop down, struggling not to start crying again. Now the whole world knew about his problem.

Thanks, Mycroft.

This made it considerably more difficult for him to try putting it in the past.

Who'd miss him?

He wondered that, often. Then he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside, and went to see the only person who undoubtably would miss him.

•••

The drive wasn't as bad as John had expected, because he was lucky enough to have a boss who didn't exactly act like a boss, but he was still relieved to find himself back outside of 221B.

He didn't particularly mind staying in the car a few minutes after it stopped at the curb to discuss his old career in military service.

Not until he tried to evade one of Erin's questions, and she said "Oh, come on. Impress a girl."

She had become rather flirty with him a while ago, but good God was she TRYING to be another Irene Adler?

He turned to her, intending to say something, but was unprepared to have her leaning in towards him.

As she brushed her lips across his cheek, he looked past her and saw a teary-eyed Sherlock standing in the front doorway.

Something had happened, again.

And he'd found John sitting in a car with a woman trying to kiss him.

•••

Sherlock had opened the front door, expecting to have John waiting and able to comfort him, and instead he saw, well, something very different.

His mind, his "hard drive", essentially went into standby. Without actually thinking about what he was doing, he stepped outside and began walking away from the flat.

•••

John pushed Erin away from him, probably a little more roughly than he should have. He jumped out of the car and slammed the door, shouting "I quit!" as he went to chase Sherlock down the street.

By the time John made it around to the sidewalk, Sherlock was gone.  
He must have turned some corner, or gone into a building or something.

Whatever it was, he'd disappeared.

•••

Sherlock didn't know where he was going, but he had to get away.

What had he just seen? He'd thought... His memories spoke pretty loudly to the fact that the only person he had ever loved felt just the same about him, and yet-

He couldn't even think straight.  
Distress, sorrow, and even self-hate were not unfamiliar feelings for him.

This was something new.

He had been completely alone for as long as he could remember, and then he met John.

It had taken him such a long time to realize what that meant, because he'd never really loved before. He had to learn what that felt like.

Now he was learning what it felt like to have a broken heart.

He had thought that John actually loved him. He also realized that, subconsciously, he'd been expecting to spend the rest of his life with the man.

But now, he didn't know. It seemed he was wrong.

That was new.

His brain was just so scrambled, and he was fairly convinced his stomach had been replaced by a bottomless pit. Sherlock shuddered as waves of emotion rolled over his body.

Uncertainty.

He'd never been unsure of himself before.

And betrayal.

John. John had betrayed him.

This was why he'd liked keeping himself away from emotions of any kind.

Things never ended well when you let emotions get in the way.

Now, because of them, he was tearing himself apart.

But he couldn't help it.

The one person in the world he cared about didn't care for him.

And suddenly he knew where he was going.

•••

John just stood in the middle of the sidewalk, backing up the foot traffic, having absolutely no idea where to go.

Suddenly his phone buzzed in his pocket. He grabbed the phone and quickly read the message.

'Don't try to follow me'

Sherlock hadn't signed it. No '-SH' at the end. John didn't suppose anyone else would find that important, but Sherlock always did that. It was subconscious. It was just out of habit.

He must really be shaken if he'd forgotten it.

There was no way in hell John was going to obey that text, but he didn't know where to begin.

Knowing it was pointless, he tried phoning Sherlock, and it of course was immediately sent to voicemail.  
He thought it would've been nice if he had control over a homeless network like Sherlock's.

John shrugged; he could go to Lestrade. He had people all over the city, as well, though they were not quite as efficient.

As John hailed a cab, he thought how absurd it was that he could just casually go to Scotland Yard to find out where his flatmate had gone.

•••

"I need to speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade." He informed a plain clothes detective, one he'd seen frequently at the Yard but didn't really know.

She briefly looked up from the paperwork that she was pretending was important to motion in direction of Lestrade's office.

•••

When John walked in, Anderson and Sergeant Donovan were standing beside his desk, engaged in their own quiet conversation while Lestrade finished a phone call.

"Greg, have you got any idea where Sherlock is?" He asked once the DI had hung up the phone.

"I haven't seen the freak for days." Sally noted, breaking out of her sidebar with Anderson.

"Such a shame, too." Anderson's nasal voice was coated with sarcasm, "You know, I'd forgotten how cases go when they're NOT interrupted by a 'high-functioning sociopath'."

"Yeah, I wasn't asking you, thanks." John clenched his fists inside his pockets in an attempt to remain calm. He looked pointedly at Lestrade.

"Look, I read the papers, and I'm sorry for whatever he's got going on," Anderson continued in the most insincere tone possible, not seeming to understand that his opinion wasn't wanted, "but I won't deny that it's nice having things go according to protocol, and being able to get through a case without an amateur insulting me very five minutes."

John grabbed the collar of Anderson's jacket and shook him.

"I was not asking you," he somehow managed to keep his voice level, "so shut up. Sherlock has only aided you in every case he's ever laid a finger on, and if you can think for one second that he's an amateur, then you really do deserve to be constantly called an idiot."

He released Anderson and turned himself to face Lestrade's desk.

"I'll make a call, see what I can do to find him." The DI, the only one in the room who seemed to have any sympathy for what was happening, said as he picked up the phone and dialed.

After a moment, the distant-sounding rings stopped and a muffled voice could be heard on the other end of the line.

Lestrade's eyes widened, then shut again quickly, and he mouthed "Fuck."

"No, sir," he said, "yes, of course. I was just- yes, sir." He flinched like he'd been hung up on and set the phone back down.

"The Chief Superintendent doesn't want our search force being 'wasted' on finding an unpaid consultant, particularly when he's not even been gone long enough to be called 'missing'. Sorry, John."

John nodded at Greg's apologetic smile and left the office.

•••

John argued with himself the entire cab drive back. There was another way of trying to find Sherlock, but he really wanted to avoid that. By any means possible.

It again struck him as odd when he realized that he was going to the man who had the best chance of helping him as a final resort.

He'd gotten rather jaded, living with someone so connected as his flatmate.

Still, as much as he hated Mycroft, Sherlock came first.

'We need to talk. -JW'

Literally within moments, an overly discrete black car pulled up, and the door opened to let John in.

"How did-" John asked himself under his breath, but shook his head.

It was best not to even try getting inside the Holmes brothers' heads. For all he knew, Mycroft had been waiting for this.

That pretty girl who'd called herself Anthea last time was already sitting in the backseat, immersed in her smartphone. John wasn't even going to bother talking to her this time.

•••

The car pulled up to an abandoned building, just as before, and without needing to be told John got out and began walking toward the silhouetted figure that was leaning on its umbrella like a cane a little ways ahead.

Neither of them spoke for rather a long time, which was understandable, considering.

"Where is he?" John finally asked, knowing that Mycroft would somehow have eyes on Sherlock.

"And why should I tell you?" Mycroft smirked, swinging his umbrella up and resting it on his shoulder. "I was right in what I said before, Dr. Watson; your company has not helped Sherlock's condition."

"But-" John tried to protest, but it would seem that this time it was Mycroft's turn to not let him get a word in.

"I feel that, for my brother's own good, I shall let him keep away from you if he wishes to do so. You appear to be under the impression that he needs you. I assure you, he does not."

"So, essentially you're just saying you won't tell me where he is, even though you know." John was beginning to lose his patience.

"Essentially." That indignant look was creeping back onto Mycroft's countenance. John sighed, spun around, and went back to the car.

Why did he even bother talking to Mycroft?

•••

"It's for your own good, Dr. Watson." Mycroft muttered as the car was driving away.

•••

John was climbing up the steps to  
the flat when he felt his phone vibrate again.

It was Stamford.

'Mate, you still sharing that flat with Sherlock? -MS'

John sighed as he typed out a reply:

'I should hope so, I'm still paying half the rent. Why? -JW'

He was at the foot of the stairs within the flat when he got Mike's response.

He glanced down at the screen.

'Subj: Multimedia Message  
From: Mike Stamford'

He opened the message and very nearly dropped his phone in horror.

It was a picture of Sherlock.

And he was standing on the edge of the roof of St. Bart's.

•••

John thought it must have been less than five seconds before he had dialed Sherlock's number and leaped back out into the street, advancing quickly in the direction of St. Bart's.

Sherlock looked at the group of people gathering at the bottom of the hospital. Great.

Sherlock's phone began to buzz.

Supposing that perhaps he owed an explanation, he pressed 'Answer' and raised his mobile to his ear.

•••

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John burst out with equal parts anger and fear in his voice, the moment Sherlock picked up his phone.

"I am standing on the roof of a hospital, John. I thought that should be obvious." Sherlock replied, with only a slight tremor in his voice.

"I don't understand. Why-?" John struggled not to start crying over what was happening.

"John, let me explain. I have risked my life constantly seeking out incredibly clever and dangerous criminals almost daily, since I was fourteen.

I hold myself accountable for every death that occurred during those cases.

Not to mention, my safety in this detective work has never been guaranteed.

For years, I have been willing to die for my work.

I thought that maybe, after all this time, I'd found something worth living for."

Sherlock kept emotions out of his voice, though he was dying inside just a little more with each word.

"Which is?" Despite his efforts, tears welled up in John's eyes.

"You know." He'd meant that to sound almost annoyed.

Hadn't quite come out that way. He sucked in a deep breath and continued.

"But I was wrong. No one has ever cared for me. I'm only ever criticized, ridiculed, and judged by the people in my life, and everyone else, thanks to the press. I don't even like my own self. I thought I finally had someone who did, but it seems they do not feel the way I thought they did."

•••

John shook his head. Sherlock couldn't be serious.

"Do you mean the thing with Erin?" If Sherlock committed suicide because he'd made the mistake of getting a ride from his boss...

"That wasn't anything!" John exclaimed frantically.

"She kissed me, and frankly that whole experience is making me wish I'd never been hired by that company!"

John took a deep breath.

"Sherlock, I love you, and I don't know what I'd I without you."

His voice softened.

"You can't leave me. I need you.

•••

The tears trickling down Sherlock's cheeks couldn't be heard in his voice.

"Yes, you say that now, but if I disappeared, how long would you actually miss me?"

"Forever." John replied without hesitation, ignoring that it was a rhetorical question.

John's body shook as silent tears ran down his face. "Without you, I'm completely alone. So, I swear to God if you do this, I'll do the same tomorrow."

•••

Sherlock's throat tightened when he heard that.

•••

"Please. If you don't want this life for yourself anymore, then hang on for me. Sherlock plea-" John's eyes widened as the line clicked.

Sherlock.

•••

He had heard enough.

Sherlock snapped his phone shut and let it fall from his hand.

Surveying everything below him, he slowly raised a foot and stepped off the ledge.

•••

When Sherlock hung up, John was suddenly unable to see or think of anything but his best friend standing on the roof.

Again, his mind hurled at him so many images he didn't want to see.

Sherlock falling through the air, his coat billowing out behind him and regret filling his eyes until the moment he hit the pavement.

The street around him becoming a sickening red, and a crowd gathering around his broken body.

His fractured skull and twisted limbs, clothes torn and face nearly unrecognizable, bruises surrounding eyes that would never open again.

John tried to push the very idea out of his head, but despite his best efforts the fear only got stronger.

Tears filled his eyes as he slowly lowered himself to the ground, overcome with emotion.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, more or less unnoticed by the busy Londoners that passed him by, before he became vaguely aware of someone stopping and crouching down beside him.

Two strong arms wrapped around him.

•••

Upon seeing John collapse, Sherlock had immediately changed his mind. He might not have wanted this life anymore, but he could tell John had meant what he'd said; he couldn't let John die because of him.

He'd stepped backwards, off the ledge and back onto the roof, and scrambled to get down to the ground floor and go to John.

•••

Breathing in the familiar smell, John opened his eyes to stare into Sherlock's. The two of them slowly stood, and John, still crying, threw his arms around Sherlock's neck and buried his face in his coat.

"John, I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered as tears began to roll down his own cheeks.

"No, I'm sorry." John sobbed, "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me, to keep this from going so far. I'm sorry I put that stupid job that I don't even care about before you. I shouldn't have left.

And I'm sorry about Erin."

Sherlock looked down at him. "That wasn't your fault."

"I'm still sorry. Nothing like that will ever happen again." He said still not releasing Sherlock from his grasp.

"John, it's not as though you were cheating. You didn't mean for that to happen. It's okay." Sherlock said sternly.

His voice softened as he continued speaking. "I'm sorry I frightened you like that. I just..." He shook his head. "I should have told you when this all started."

Sherlock's lips brushed the top of John's head. "I-"

•••

But the ending of that sentence was drowned out as a small throng of people, the majority of them seeming to be reporters, moved from their previous spot beneath the hospital towards Sherlock and John.

Several exclamations of simple things like, "Sherlock Holmes!" were mixed in with mentions of the rumors about rehab and questions:

"Was this an attempt at suicide?"

"Is it true you've attempted suicide before?"

And even:

"What's the nature of the relationship between you two?"

Sherlock and John simply smiled at each other and and began to leave.

"Don't you people have lives?" Sherlock shouted a they walked away, more for his own amusement than anything else.

John chuckled, wiping the tears from his face. "Of course not. They just sit around waiting for you to do something interesting."

Sherlock took his hand, and they went, as quickly as possible, home to 221B.

•••

To stay on the safe side, they decided to remain indoors for a while. John now had no job to go to, and since Sherlock had cases he could work on from the flat, it wouldn't be a problem for them to spend the majority of the next few days inside, enjoying each other's company.

Unfortunately, the day after the incident at St. Bart's, John came across another article about Sherlock online.

"Sherlock," John called to the man conducting some ridiculous experiment in the kitchen.

"Not now." He said absently, not even glancing up.

"Looks like my boss got to those reporters. My old boss."

Sherlock silently set down his work, stepped out into the other room, and leaned over John's shoulder to read the article.

'Erin Wood, former employer of Sherlock Holmes's companion John Watson, has stated that Holmes did indeed attempt suicide yesterday evening. According to Wood-'

John suddenly realized that Sherlock had taken a few steps back and was typing something into his phone.

"What are you doing?" John asked quickly.

Sherlock didn't reply. Instead, he pressed a button and held out his mobile, which began to play a recording.

•••

"You say you know something about what happened here?" A woman's voice inquired.

"I most certainly do." That was clearly Erin.

It was the recording of a reporter's interview with her.

"How did you-" John began. Sherlock simply showed him a card which had Mycroft's name followed by about a dozen different security codes. "Right."

They listened to the remarkably lengthy interview- Erin did like to talk- and learned quite a few interesting 'facts' about themselves.

For one, apparently it was John who had been coming onto her, not the other way around, and she had played along a bit because he was a friend and "rather cute".

'That is true. He is rather cute.' Noted Sherlock after hearing what Erin had said about John.

Also, it seemed that Sherlock had 'desperately tried to end his life' because he was hopelessly in love with John, who'd never expressed any of the same feelings.

John laughed upon hearing that rubbish.

And, she knew for a fact that this was not the first attempt Sherlock had made.

'Technically', Sherlock thought. 'It really wasn't though.' But even John had only recently learned that. She obviously had no idea what she was talking about.

Erin then went on to list reasons for John's disinterest in Sherlock which included: Sherlock being such a show off, his massive ego, the fact that his intellectual drive made him boring company, and how he was incredibly sensitive to the littlest of things and always sought attention.

It wasn't difficult to understand what she was getting at with the last one.

That was not okay.

"Sherlock-," John turned to his flatmate, who was unexpectedly smirking at his mobile. "What's so funny?" He had almost been expecting tears again.

"Do you suppose she realized how incredibly desperate she sounded in that?" Sherlock held back a laugh.

John began smiling, too, partly because he thought about it and realized Sherlock was right, but mainly because this, something which would have been a trigger not too long ago, was making him laugh.

Sherlock really was recovering.

•••

The next morning, John sat down on the couch and was reaching for his laptop when Sherlock, who'd been sitting silently on top of the coffee table, moved onto the couch and laid on his back, resting his head in John's lap.

Sherlock brought his hands up under his chin, fingertips placed together, as was customary when he was thinking.

Smiling, but pretending to be taken aback, John stopped reaching for his laptop and asked, "Can I help you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Bored."

"Well, brilliant. What do you want me to do?" John inquired.

Sherlock opened his eyes to look up at John and raised an eyebrow. Did he not see the obvious response?

"Well-" Sherlock began.

"Sherlock," John snapped to cut him off. He really should've seen that coming.

There was a brief pause before they both burst out laughing.

•••

After finally deciding to watch a movie, Sherlock sat up to let John stand.

"Alright." John sighed as he carefully selected a film to watch.

'Romantic comedy or mystery?' He thought to himself.

After a second of imagining Sherlock being forced to sit through a romantic comedy, John almost shuddered and blindly grabbed an old detective film.

Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed picking out details from detective films that proved the writers were wrong and the murderer was not the one found guilty by the main character.

When John tried to take his seat again, Sherlock pulled him down so John laying in front of him.

After a minute of moving bodies and tangled limbs, Sherlock's chin rested on John's shoulder with his arm was wrapped around John's waist.

John smiled to himself as Sherlock's hand moved to rest on his heart. He snuggled closer to the taller man's chest and closed his eyes.

Strangely, Sherlock did not correct the mistakes of the ignorant detectives on the screen during the entire duration of the film.

•••

When it was over, John turned his head and said, "I should probably go out to-"

"Why?" Sherlock didn't even let him finish the sentence.

"Look, I know we're trying to keep a low profile for a bit and all, but there is literally no food in this flat, so I might want to get some if we plan on eating this week."

Sherlock snorted.

"I mean: If I plan on eating this week." John corrected himself, and sat up. "I'll be back soon." And with that, he leaned down, kissed Sherlock on the cheek, and left.

•••

Outside, John tried to hail a cab, but instead a black car pulled up to the curb.

He was grumbling to himself about Mycroft's ridiculous bloody power complex when two men got out of the car, forced him into the back seat, and pulled a hood over his head.

'Okay, probably not Mycroft.' He thought to himself.

•••

When the hood was removed and John could see again, he found himself in a dark basement facing a dark haired man who had a cocky look on his face.

"Who the hell are you?" John managed after a minute of complete silence.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi."

•••

Skulking around the flat in the hope of finding something to do, Sherlock suddenly checked the time.

What was taking John so long?

•••

"What do you want with me?" Asked John with a slight tremor in his voice.

"It's not you I want, Dr. Watson.

No, No, No.

I'm more interested in that handsome genius you understandably hang around."

•••

Sherlock was beginning to get worried when his phone vibrated.

'Text-Message  
From: John  
Subj: I have something of yours...'

When he opened the message, it displayed a photo of John tied to a chair in an dark, windowless basement.

He read the caption. 'Got a bit damaged in transport.'

Sherlock wanted to cry at the sight of the blood matted in John's hair as well as the desperate, pleading look in his eyes.

But, the thing that really made him just want to tear whoever had done this apart was the row of countless parallel gashes that ran down John's arm.

•••

Sherlock stared at the photo for a few minutes in disbelief, fully expecting to wake up from the nightmare now called life. Eventually, he put down his phone and tried to think of what to do.

Under normal circumstances, he would have been fine to do this on his own, but his mind was so scrambled he wouldn't be able to work the case alone.

He headed out for Scotland Yard.

•••

As soon as he arrived, Sherlock began to push carelessly past people to get to Lestrade.

He couldn't help thinking that it was his fault. If only he hadn't let John go out, or had gone out himself, or hadn't let the cupboards get so bare in the first place, John might still be sitting on the couch at home, completely unharmed.

When Sherlock reached the detective inspector, he explained what had happened in a rather long, emotional rant that probably didn't make much sense.

Lestrade didn't appear to understand a word of it, and said, "Sherlock, slow down. What's wrong?"

Sherlock tried to respond but was unable to say anything else.

"Sherlock, tell me. What's wrong?" Lestrade said as he slowly approached the consulting detective.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose as he pulled out his phone and showed Lestrade the photograph.

•••

Lestrade didn't speak for several minutes, looking back and forth between the phone and Sherlock.

He couldn't believe what had happened, but what was almost more difficult to believe was Sherlock's reaction. He was trying to hold it together, but the look on his face still said that he was falling apart in the inside.

Lestrade opened his mouth to reassure Sherlock that John would be alright, when suddenly the lights all went dark and the computers, the phones, everything electronic in the building, shut off.

This wasn't a normal power outage.

•••

Suddenly, a dim light was cast over the room as every computer screen turned back on simultaneously, all displaying the same image.

A man kneeled on the ground, bound and gagged, his wrists tied so tightly that the binds literally cut into his skin. Bruises covered every inch of visible skin.

John.

A figure stepped out from the shadowed corner of the room.

The man sauntered forwards to stand beside John and traced a long cut down the side of his face, making John flinch.

"I met your little pet Sherlock. We've spent quite a lot of time together, in fact.

Can't say I quite understand the appeal.

I mean, why would someone like you want to be with this?" He prodded John's side with his foot.

"I'll bet it's funny, having him around. Aren't ordinary people adorable? But..." He tilted his head, squinting at John as though searching for the word. "Weak."

"And I love him, you bastard." Sherlock growled under his breath.

"Oh, I know," the man on the screen replied, and everyone in the room jumped as they realized the man on the screen could see and hear them, too, "That's why I thought I'd take him from you. You really need to get over that. You could do so much better."

"Burn. In. Hell," Sherlock spat out each word, glaring at the computers.

The man simply shrugged.

"Maybe I will. And if I do, I look forward to meeting you there."

As he looked at them expectantly, Sherlock's phone buzzed at him that he'd received a text.

Sherlock quickly glanced at his phone.

It was an address, somewhere in the middle of London.

"You'll be needing that." Said the man.

Sherlock looked back up at him, confused.

"To pick up the body."

He took a gun from behind his back, held the barrel to John's temple, and pulled the trigger.

•••

It was deathly quiet in the room while the screens flickered back to normal and the lights came back on.

Sherlock's eyes were closed as he fell to his knees and dropped his face to his hands.

Lestrade picked up Sherlock's discarded phone, wrote down the address, and handed it to Sally Donovan. Without a word, she gathered a team to go retrieve John's body.

•••

He was brought back to the morgue in a body bag. They didn't want Sherlock to see all the injuries, everything that had been done to it, so the bag was only unzipped enough for him to see the face for identification.

The moment he looked, Sherlock's vision blurred, and he immediately turned away as tears began to fall. He couldn't look at that. It was just too horrible.

John Watson, his best friend, his... only true friend, was dead.

•••

The funeral was on Friday.

It was a small ceremony. John only had one close-knit circle of friends.

Some of his old Military buddies.

Mike.

Lestrade.

Mrs. Hudson.

Harry.

Sherlock.

And to Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft had decided to show up.

Of course, being the ignorant bastard that he was, he pretended he did not care about comforting his brother or honoring John.

Nobody bought it.

John's ashes were sealed inside a plain metal urn and buried beneath a headstone that simply read:

'John Hamish Watson  
1971-2013  
Aged 41 years  
Missed more than words can say'

Sherlock could only think how true that was as he stepped up to say a few words. Truthfully, he didn't know what the words were even as they left his mouth. They didn't really matter.

Nothing mattered anymore.

•••

In the months that followed, 221B Baker Street received an unusual amount of visitors, all trying to revive Sherlock.

Molly would come by every now and then, just making small talk to try to cheer him up a little. In the beginning he would shoot his clever, slightly hurtful remarks at her until she gave up and left, but eventually he decided it was too much trouble an would just lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

Lestrade tried to tempt him with cases, some of which would previously have ranked at least a 9 on Sherlock's scale. In one, there were two connected murders, the murder weapon from the second having no fingerprints except those of the first murder victim, who had died three days before. He dug up two serial killer cases. Sherlock simply waved him away, every single time.

They even dragged Anderson down, once, just to see if they could get Sherlock to fight with him. That only resulted in the two of them glaring at each other for a few minutes before everyone realized it had been a bad idea.

Mrs. Hudson was not so optimistic as the rest. She understood Sherlock well enough to know there would be no cheering him up. Not from this. The only thing that could possibly heal him now was a lot of time. Nevertheless, she brought food to him every day, which he never even glanced at, and checked every night to see if there was even a chance he was sleeping, always to find him wide awake, either sitting absorbed in thought or pacing around the flat.

Isolated in his office, Mycroft monitored him 24/7, as unbearable as it was to see him that way. He just wanted to make sure he didn't do anything... reckless.

•••

At first, Sherlock saw what was going on, when he was becoming so tetchy. He was constantly rude in the name of being right without ever caring or apologizing.

This was how he'd been before.

Before John had found him.

But soon, he sort of stopped being anything.

•••

One morning, Sherlock awoke with the strangest hollow feeling in his stomach. Usually, there was the heat of anger, or a cold, dark sadness.

Now there was nothing.

He was numb. It was like his mind hadn't been able to take it. All his feelings had been felt, all his tears had been cried, and he just couldn't do it anymore.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought that this was it. Game over. The past few months had been a game, him playing against the world, and he had just lost.

It was almost addictive, the nothingness being pumped through him. After months of complete emotional exhaustion, he didn't have to feel it anymore.

Yet, at the same time, all he wanted was to feel something.

Anything.

He swung his legs off the sofa and walked into the bathroom.

He had blades hidden there. He'd always had them, where no one else knew to look. His recovery had included a few relapses, but John had known. He always knew, even when he couldn't see the cuts, just from the look in his eyes. That was why Sherlock had eventually been able to stop; he hated making John so worried and sad.

Now, when he rolled up his sleeve, his arm was covered not with fresh red cuts, but with scars. Some of them were beginning to slowly fade away, but he planned to remedy that.

Sherlock pressed the cool, sharp edge to one of the old scars, prepared to split it open again.

Somehow, as he drew in his next breath, memories came flooding back to him.

Memories of John.

He remembered how John had so carefully bandaged those arms, those cuts, switching into doctor mode, with more concern on his face than Sherlock thought a human could possibly display.

He let the blade fall from his hand, tears beginning to run down his cheeks, and brought his hands up to his face as he collapsed to the tile floor, sobbing into his palms.

He began to wish for that nothingness again.

•••

On the opposite side of the city, Jim Moriarty stepped into the basement of an abandoned building. Given the above decent quality of the rest of the place, it was always a bit of a shock for him to set foot in this roach-infested room, so old and unused the air was practically coated with dust. There was no light, save for one solitary lamp which contained a flickering bulb. It seemed eerie to him. He rather liked it.

The lamp hung from the ceiling, over the once sand-colored hair of a man dressed in torn clothes, which draped loosely from a body that had lost too much weight. He was so covered in bruises, burns, and cuts that there may not have been a single piece of skin on his entire body retaining its original color.

"I am very good," Moriarty informed the man as he walked in slow circles around him. "Don't you think so?" He turned to the man for an answer.

"Ah," he said, remembering the strip of cloth that gagged him, and went back to pacing.

"Apparently, just because you witness a murder, you don't need to bother running a DNA check," he laughed, "People are so stupid. It really ought to take more than a mask to fool them. Granted, I have access to any and all of the most skilled con artists alive, but..."

He finally stopped and placed a hand on the back of the chair that the man was sitting in.

"I have something to show you, Dr. Watson."

•••

John suffered the near equivalent of culture shock when he was taken upstairs. Fresh air and real sunlight had become such strangers to him.

That momentary joy was taken away within moments, however, when Moriarty dragged him over to a chair in front of a large, old television screen. It shouldn't even have been operational, but then John thought that about everything in the building, and it was practically a functioning office.

That was not what stood out to him, though.

The screen was showing the feed from a security camera on Baker Street, zoomed in to focus on the window of 221B.

Inside, Sherlock sat on the sofa, doing absolutely nothing. The sight broke John's heart.

He had such a lifeless look on his face. He looked defeated. His eyes were swollen, but he wasn't crying. It was like he had grieved so long, he'd simply given up.

It was like a train wreck. The most awful thing he'd seen in his life, and he couldn't look away. He feebly raised a hand, as though he could comfort Sherlock. His friend needed him, needed to know he wasn't dead, but there was not a thing he could do.

John was tightly tied down to the chair with no chance of escape.

Moriarty smiled as he turned around and began to leave the room.

"Enjoy the show."

•••

From that point on, John's new prison was in front of a screen, showing his never ending worst nightmare.

He had literally broken down into tears when he saw Sherlock heading towards the bathroom with that blank look; he knew what that meant. It was such a relief to see him re-emerge without wounds that he nearly forgot all the other horrors he'd seen since being taken, just for a moment. Almost.

•••

One day, Moriarty came in and began to untie him from the chair.

"Change of location," he announced unceremoniously. "One of those idiots," he nodded towards the few thugs he kept around to make his own life easier, "went and shot someone, and the case'll lead back here, eventually. We've had to kill him, of course, but better safe than sorry. We're leaving. But obviously, you can't be allowed to see where."

One of the goons that hasn't lost Moriarty's favor walked up and knocked John out with a sharp blow to the back of his head.

A single trail of blood began to drip down from the fresh wound.

•••

When Sherlock's phone rung for what must have been the twentieth or thirtieth time, he was so annoyed, he finally picked it up and put it to his ear.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice began, nearly stumbling over the words in a rush to get them out, "we're at a scene, looks like a mob hit, uninteresting, whatever, but some blood was found that isn't the victim's, no more than forty-eight hours old, and we ran it, and," he paused to take a breath," Sherlock, you won't believe this, but it's John's."

There was a brief moment of silence as Sherlock's mind rebooted itself.

All at once, he remembered what it felt like to be alive.

"Where are you?" his voice practically creaked, from literally not having spoken a word in months.

Lestrade gave him the address. "So, you're coming down?"

Shelves gave a raspy, bitter laugh. "Hell yes I am coming down. And I'll tell you what else I'm going to do. I'm going to get John back, and the moment I do, I'm going to grab that bastard who took him and personally put a bullet in his brain."

Sherlock smiled a bit as he grabbed his coat and rushed outside.

John was alive.

And suddenly, Sherlock was too.

•••

Sherlock arrived at the address Lestrade had given him faster than should have been humanly possible. The body of the dead man was just being rolled away from the scene when he met the DI at the front door.

"That was fast," Lestrade noted as he led Sherlock upstairs. Sherlock nodded absently.

"What did you expect? It was him by the way," he said, motioning towards the body, "that killed him. It was the man who kidnapped John."

Lestrade nearly asked how he knew that, but then he remembered this was Sherlock and just accepted it.

"Pity he won't live long enough to do time for all of this." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

•••

When they entered the room that John's blood was found in, Sherlock's brain was overloaded with information, most of which he didn't want to think about.

A chair sat in the center of the room, rope laying loosely around the legs and armrests. It was stained, in places, with red.

Tiny scuff marks fanned out on the floor around the legs of the chair. John had been hit hard, hard enough that the chair itself actually moved.

There were scratches on the chair, as well as in the wood of a desk in the room, and Sherlock recognized each and every one.

The tail of a whip.

A razor blade- that one hit Sherlock particularly deep.

Thumbscrews.

Wait, what?

Sherlock's mind matched that thought to the image of John's hands in the photograph. Yes, medieval thumbscrews.

What the Hell was wrong with this man?

•••

"Where's the other room?" He asked, turning to Lestrade.

"The other room?" Repeated Lestrade slightly confused.

"The room he was held in before this one. They were clearly here for a long time, but everything in this room, the scratches, the blood, it's all relatively fresh. So where was he kept before they moved him here?" Sherlock continued spinning around the room, still gathering all the information, as he spoke.

"We've searched the whole building, and none of the other rooms showed any signs of... anything like this." Even as he said it, Lestrade knew that if Sherlock thought there was another room, they must have just missed something.

"What about the basement?" Sherlock asked.

"Basement?"

"Yes, the basement. Obviously. That is the most common and cliche place to keep a prisoner, and besides in this building it'd be easy to miss."

"There is no basement." Lestrade told him. Sherlock stopped looking around the room and turned to him.

"Say that again."

"Sherlock, there's no basement in this building." He hadn't even finished the sentence before Sherlock was leaping back down the stairs. In less than a minute he had removed a panel from the wall on the bottom floor and was creeping down a hidden staircase to a secret basement.

The moment he set foot in the room, he knew something was wrong. He sniffed the air, and was scratching at the wall when Lestrade arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

He examined the residue on his fingernail. There was a chemical that had been used during the construction of this place, it was- oh for God's sake. He couldn't even remember the name of it. Just a reminder that his brain wasn't quite working properly.

Sherlock rushed back to the stairs, telling Lestrade to get out and mumbling something, pretending he did in fact know the name of the thing he'd found.

"What?" Lestrade asked as he obeyed and began back up the steps.

"In the walls," Sherlock said. "It was common in construction back when this place was built, but it... It's poisonous if not sealed properly. Only truly effective over long periods of time, still, better safe than sorry. Now go. There's something I wanted to check in the other room."

•••

He studied the television mounted to the wall of that room for a few moments before stepping up and switching it on.

Suddenly an image appeared on the screen. It appeared to be a live video feed from a security camera, focused in on one particular flat.

His flat.

John had been forced to watch a live video stream of 221 B. He'd seen everything that Sherlock had been through when John was "dead".

His depression.

The one thing Sherlock always tried to spare him from, because it just hurt him too much.

That man had crossed the line.

Actually, saying he's crossed the line was an understatement. The man had crossed the line ages ago. Truthfully, he had no idea where the bloody line even began.

"That fucking bastard! I. Am. Going. To. Rip. Him. Apart. What the bloody Hell..." As Sherlock's rant continued on like that, Anderson walked into the room.

"Oh, is our little sociopath upset? Poor depressed-" Anderson began.

"Shut up!" Sherlock screamed as he threw a punch at Anderson's face.

Anderson did shut up, only to clutch both hands over his bleeding nose.

Immediately after he gave Anderson the well deserved punch, three other cops roughly grabbed Sherlock, shoved him down the stairs and threw him out onto the sidewalk.

"What the Hell?" He grumbled at them.

Donovan stood in the doorway, with an almost -but not quite- apologetic look on her face.

"Sorry, freak. I understand this one is personal for you, but you're being reckless. Can't have you contaminating the crime scene. You're just going to have to back off until we've sorted this out."

As she went back inside, Lestrade appeared.

"Greg, please." Sherlock begged.

He never said please.

"You broke a man's nose, Sherlock."

"But it was Anderson!" He exclaimed.

Lestrade opened and closed his mouth; he didn't really have an answer to that. Eventually, he just shrugged, sighed, "Rules are rules. I'm sorry," and left.

•••

Sherlock slowly opened the door of 221 B, frustrated beyond words at being banned from the case. He tossed his coat over the back of one armchair, not startled in the least by the man sitting in the other.

The man who had kidnapped John.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock mused. The man shrugged.

"I don't believe I've formally introduced myself. Moriarty. And I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes." He offered his hand.

"Sherlock, please." He growled, keeping his words friendly but deliberately ignoring the hand.

"Jim," He nodded and lowered his arm. "So, where to begin. How's recovery?"

"Fine, and none of your business."

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "Alright. Touchy subject. No point beating around the bush then. So, about John..." Sherlock's muscles tightened, and Moriarty smirked at him. "You really do deserve better."

The subtext there was pretty obvious.

"I am not leaving my boyfriend for you, you psychopath."

"Sociopath," he corrected, "We're not too different at all, you and I." He chucked. "You're me"

Sherlock shook his head. "There is a difference: I've actually got a heart."

"Oh, yes," he said, "speaking of him, there's a little problem. You see, he's going to die."

Sherlock just about jumped out of his chair as he opened his mouth to give Moriarty a piece of his mind.

"Calm down, dear," Jim teased, "he's not dead yet. However, I'm afraid that won't continue much longer, if he remains... in my custody, and-"

"What do you want?" Sherlock cut him off, staring at his hands. Moriarty let out a deep breath, sizing him up, and folded his hands together.

"I'll let him live, on one condition," he leaned in towards Sherlock.

"You're mine."

•••

Sherlock considered, knowing that this man would not budge, but thinking perhaps he could free John another way. Eventually, he decided that he would undoubtably be able to, but given how careful Moriarty was he might get to John too late. It was safer to play along. He couldn't gamble with John's life.

Of course, the tremendous speed that Sherlock's mind operated at allowed him to reach his conclusion in under a second.

"Fine," he replied without hesitation.

"So you'll do as I say?"

"Yes."

The man sitting across from him gave him the most pleased and sinister grin he'd ever seen.

•••

John tiredly opened his eyes, still swollen with bruises, when the door to his new cell creaked open. Subconsciously, he knew something was wrong; he felt so groggy, and even his vision was a little fogged.

His mind snapped to full consciousness when he saw who walked through that door.

Jim Moriarty, his captor, had his fingers linked thought Sherlock's as they stepped into the room together.

What the Hell was this?

He rejected it as actual reality at first, but finally he had to accept it, and he literally felt his heart shatter.

"John. Please go. You need to leave. I..." Sherlock paused. "I love him." John shook his head.

"No. No. This isn't happening. I don't believe you. Sherlock, please tell me this is just part of a plan or somet-" His broken voice croaked. He just couldn't help what he thought.

Sherlock cut him off.

"I lied. I was using you to get to the one person who... matters. Him." Sherlock blinked back tears.

Moriarty just stood watching with a ridiculous smile.

After a beat, he waved towards the door and said, "You're free to go."

Then he turned to grab Sherlock's neck, pulled him in, and pressed their lips together.

John's cheeks burned as he stormed out of the room away from the two sociopaths.

Sherlock broke away and tried to follow John out the door.

"John, wait! You can't just go out on your own. You're going to be severely malnourished; you need help," John kept trudging on, "Please. I love you, let me help-"

But it was too late. John didn't hear a word he said.

•••

John staggered, tripping over his own feet as he walked, but still he continued until he made it out to the street.

Sherlock tried to follow, but Moriarty caught his sleeve before he could go any further.

John collapsed on the sidewalk, his eyelids drooping shut. He was vaguely aware of someone lifting him from the ground and dropping him onto the backseat of a sleek black car.

•••

For once, Mycroft was actually in the car. He wasn't sure how much point there was in speaking to a dying man who might not really be hearing him, but he tried anyway.

"I told you once that my brother doesn't need you. I was lying. He is obnoxiously, foolishly in love with you. Unfortunate, in my opinion, but true."

Even in his half-conscious mind, John knew he didn't believe a word out of Mycroft's mouth.

•••

Sherlock yanked his wrist out of Moriarty's grasp.

"John..." Sherlock whispered as he immediately began to regret going along with Moriarty. He had only been trying to help save John's life.

Taking in a deep breath, Sherlock made up his mind.

Turning around, Sherlock tackled Moriarty to the ground and attempted to choke the man.

Moriarty laughed, fighting against Sherlock. They struggled for a few minutes, when suddenly Sherlock felt a small, sharp pain in his shoulder and turned his head.

A needle was poking out of the sleeve of his shirt.

He grabbed at it frantically, and eventually pulled it free and threw it to the ground.

Moriarty didn't bother trying to stop him as he stumbled out the room and away from him. His work was done. If he couldn't have Sherlock, neither could John.

Sherlock stood on the sidewalk, unsure of which way to go, when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of light from the top of a building. He was thrown backwards onto the pavement and an incredible pain rang through him as a small soft lead projectile buried itself just below his collarbone.

Crimson red flowed at a dangerous rate out into the street, and Sherlock's world went black.

•••

Kim walked into room 117 to hook medicine up to the IV, something to counter the poison that had entered the man's system.

The young nurse looked at the man lying on the bed, who was nearly covered from head to toe with bandages. She'd seen him twice: when he was first brought in, and when the doctors were patching him up. She knew that beneath the layers of gauze there were unsightly wounds, though they certainly looked better now than they had when the man had arrived.

She shuddered to remember the state he'd been in.

•••

A blade had slashed his wrists, arms, and legs, countless times. There were some cuts that were barely deeper than scratches, some so severe that the white of his bone peeked out from the red.

His skin puckered around gashes in his back that looked to be from the tail of a whip.

Discolored, concave patches showed where he'd been burned, intentionally, pretty badly. The only burns Kim had ever seen like that were on those who burned for self injury, though this man had clearly been harmed in all these ways by someone else.

One of his hands had swollen and turned purple from all the bruises and fractures to the bones.

And his face... She'd wanted to cry. It was covered with black and blue, and quite a few tiny cuts from when he'd been hit too hard. There was one long slit down the side of his face, like a knife had been drawn across it. Blood had pooled in his left eye, creating a ring of red in the white.

That face was the one part of him still visible when she arrived at the room. She said a silent prayer for him as she gazed at his battered features, and left.

•••

John knew where he was before he opened his eyes; the smells and sounds of a hospital were familiar to him.

Pain shot through him with every breath, every movement as he turned his head slightly to look around, but it was a dull echo of what it had been. There must been quite an amount of morphine in the IV hanging beside him to manage that. He vaguely wondered if that was why, when he noticed the British government himself sitting in a chair beside the hospital bed, his face looked a bit blurry.

"What do you want?" John grumbled at Mycroft.

"Dr. Watson, it is of vital importance, to me, that you get the correct impression of my brother's feelings for you." He began, absently twirling a furled umbrella in his hands. Why was the man so clingy to that thing? It hadn't rained for weeks.

"You know, I don't particularly feel like being lied to any more, at the moment." He scowled, slowly tilting his head back away from  
Mycroft.

"Do you recall Sherlock preparing to throw himself off of a hospital when he thought you didn't love him? Or sitting and doing literally nothing for months on end when he thought you'd been killed? Because I do."

John tried to protest again, but Mycroft refused to let him get a word in.

"Sentiment and relationships only distract from more important things, and he doesn't need that. If I could eliminate them from his life, things would be much simpler for the both of us, but it has become clear that there will be no separating him from you. Believe me, if I had the ability to stop this, I would. I would not be telling it to you if it weren't true."

John shook his head. "I wish I could believe you, Mycroft. It's just, he had a point. Moriarty, I mean. Sherlock is just so-well, I'm sure I hardly need to explain how extraordinary your brother is-and I'm honestly not good enough to deserve him. You don't come across someone like that more than once in a lifetime, if at all, and when you do, you just don't ever want to leave their side. But the thing is, I'm not special. It's hardly implausible that someone like Sherlock would realize they deserve better than someone like me. I didn't expect it, but it doesn't surprise me, and I'd rather not keep talking about this because if I have to think about it for much longer I just might have to tear the world apart."

"Don't you see that, in his eyes, you are special?" He was relentless.

"Bollocks."

Mycroft sighed. "John," he emphasized, as though he was too fed up to use 'Dr. Watson' anymore, "how did that pathetic act of theirs manage to fool you? That's all it was: an act. It was the only way he could get that man, James Moriarty, to set you free. He was saving your life, John."

John just looked skeptically at him. "Come on. This is Sherlock we're talking about. If he'd just wanted to get me out, he could have easily done it, without Moriarty even knowing."

As Mycroft opened his mouth to object, his phone alerted him of a text.

"What?" John asked, a little nervous at seeing the expression on Mycroft's face.

His eyes widened when he read it, and he took a deep breath before looking silently up at John.

"Sherlock."

•••

Half a dozen nurses and Mycroft all crowded around John as he tried to get up. Sherlock had been shot, for God's sake, and they actually expected him to just sit in bed?

"Look, I'm not dying! No badly broken limbs or damaged vital organs or terminal illnesses. I'm just a bit cut up; please, you have to let me go!" He cast a pleading look at Mycroft, who eventually sighed and had everyone in the building cooperating inside of five minutes.

John sprinted, only slightly hitched over and trying to hide a limp, out of his room and down the hall. Sherlock was being wheeled into the hospital on a gurney, unconscious, bleeding through the thin layers of bandages wrapped around his shoulder. John watched as he was taken in to surgery. At the door, he tried to get information on what was happening, but the nurse he spoke to refused to tell him anything.

While John frantically tried to think of what to do, a doctor rushed out of the operation room to speak to another, who was on her way in.

"We've got the fragments out, but he's losing blood fast," he said, "Forty-five percent already."

"Type?"

He grimaced. "O positive."

"O positive," she repeated, sighing.

"I know."

John was becoming more and more nervous; he understood. O positive was the most common blood type. That meant it would be donated the most, but there would also be the most demand for it. Besides which, people with type O blood could only take type O blood. If they didn't have enough on hand...

"We always need a lot of that, and it's been a busy week. We barely have any."

Suddenly John had a thought.

"What type am I?" He nearly shouted, not to anyone in particular. Both of the doctors turned to him, taking in the sight of his bandages.

"It doesn't look like you have much to spare, anyway," one of them told him.

John's jaw clenched. "Look. The man in there is my best friend. If there is any way for me to help him, I'm not going to avoid it just for a chance to preserve my own health. He means more to me than I do. Now someone bloody tell me-"

"You're O positive."

John turned around to see one of the nurses, who'd apparently followed him from his room. The doctors glared at her, but she just shrugged. John gave her a grateful smile and started to plead with the doctors to let him donate blood to Sherlock.

"Not a chance. You'd have to give almost forty percent. That could kill you."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take."

As the doctors continued to refuse, using an unnecessary amount of words to explain why, Mycroft walked up behind John.

"John, I don't-"

"Please. He'll die."

Mycroft nodded, like he'd never expected anything else, and pressed a button on his phone. Instantly, someone rushed up and whispered to the two doctors.

They looked to John and, reluctantly, nodded.

•••

John came to- apparently that blood loss had affected him- on another bed, in a hospital ward that was overflowing with cards, bouquets, and a few potted plants. That seemed a bit much.

On the other hand, he and Sherlock had both nearly died in the past twenty-four hours.

Sherlock.

John turned his head to see the other man in a hospital bed a few feet away. Sherlock was awake and looking around the room, as though annoyed that he was confined to laying down.

John was a little shaken by the look of the bandages wrapped around his bullet wound, but he supposed that was nothing compared to the way he must look.

Sherlock felt the gaze fixed on him and looked over at John. They held eye contact silently for a few moments before Sherlock said feebly,

"That thing you did... that you offered to do, that was, um... good." That was a pretty poor 'thank you', but it was the best he could manage.

Besides, John understood. Sherlock could tell he was struggling not to make some retort about "Oh, that thing. You mean saving your life", but his eyes said that there was nothing he wouldn't do for Sherlock. And that he believed him.

John nodded and closed his eyes again.

Soon, Sherlock let himself fall back into sleep, too.

•••

It had been important for Mycroft to oversee all of this, but it was about time the government and secret service- well, services- had someone to run them again.

On his way out, he stopped by the ward John and Sherlock were in. He caught the way they looked at each other, when they didn't realize he was there.

How could he have thought it was better to keep them apart? Sherlock would do anything for John, and John would do anything for Sherlock. In fact, it seemed the army doctor was wholly responsible for Sherlock's progress into recovery. If not for him, Sherlock's problem might just have continued on forever.

Of course, these were not mistakes he could ever admit to making around anyone else.

Or around himself, for that matter.

He decided to delete the moment from his memory and left the hospital.

•••

John didn't know how much time had passed before he opened his eyes again. Sherlock was staring at the TV, remote in hand, watching BBC News. Onscreen was what appeared to be the aftermath of an explosion.

Seeing that John was awake, he turned up the volume to let him hear.

"...gas leak. The only identified body pulled from he wreckage is that of wanted criminal James Moriarty."

"He's dead. Thank god," John said almost to himself.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, "he is most likely alive and simply covering his tracks, of course."

John nodded; Sherlock was right. It would be very like Moriarty to fake his death. "And?" John turned his gaze away from the television.

Sherlock smiled at him and chuckled. "Couldn't give a fuck."

John grinned back and began to laugh with him. That seemed about right. So, things really were back to normal. Relatively speaking.

•••

Around noon the next day, Molly stopped by. She spent most of her time sitting by Sherlock's bed, filling him in on what had been going on down at he precinct. John hadn't realized that Sherlock was so interested in that...

For once, it was a pleasure to hear Molly's small talk. Sherlock appreciated the chance to get caught up on the gossip he'd been missing.

Before Molly left, she leaned down and said softly, "Be good to him, okay?", smiled, and kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

Molly stood to go and, apparently seeing the indignant look on John's face, whispered, "Don't worry. He's all yours," in his ear. Then she winked at him and walked out the door.

John barely noticed Sherlock doing something on his phone before he dozed off, for a little while.

He woke up to his hospital bed being moved towards the center of the room, until it was touching Sherlock's.

"What-" he started to ask, before seeing the suppressed smile on Sherlock's face.

That night, John slept just beside Sherlock, their fingers laced together.

•••

Lestrade arrived the next morning. He couldn't help feeling guilty, like he was responsible for this happening. It almost choked him up to see them that way, but he managed to hide it.

When he apologized for kicking Sherlock off the case and leaving it at that, not even keeping a detail on him or anything, he was surprised at the genuine smile on Sherlock's face.

"It's okay," he said, "None of this was your fault, Greg. Really. Don't beat yourself up over it; it wasn't anything to do with you, and besides we're not as bad off as we look." He laughed.

Lestrade was actually reassured when he headed back to Scotland Yard. Whatever had changed Sherlock, he was grateful for it.

•••

The next day, they received a visit from Mrs. Hudson. She was beginning to cry as she talked about Baker Street without them, speaking for so long and in so many words that, no matter how much Sherlock and John loved her, they could not understand or even listen to all of it. In the end, they just told her that they missed her too, and that they'd be back before she knew it, and an attendant led her out.

"As long as we're on this subject, when are we getting out of here?" Sherlock grumbled when she'd left.

John tried not to laugh; it was entertaining and kind of cute when Sherlock got cranky over unimportant things. "Soon, love."

•••

When Sherlock woke the next morning, there were a few nurses in the room, in the middle of changing John's bandages. When Sherlock saw, his eyes filled with tears.

He hasn't seen this before; he'd been asleep the last few times they'd done it. Now, for the first time he was seeing all of John's injuries as they were. The bruises on his face had healed quickly; most were nearly gone. Not so with the rest.

Never before had he seen the severity of his wounds. The depth of his cuts. The dangerously unnatural color of his burned skin.

The whole time, his mind screamed at him, "You could have stopped this. You could have stopped this."

•••

When his bandages had been changed, John glanced over and realized that Sherlock was already awake. He wondered, worried, what was causing Sherlock's watering eyes. He remembered that he'd never seen what was under the bandages.

And this was Sherlock; he was probably blaming himself for it.

He wouldn't meet John's eye. He continued to stare at his bandages like he could still see the wounds.

"Hey," John whispered, and Sherlock slowly looked into his eyes. John reached over to gently squeeze his good hand, and Sherlock looked at least a little reassured. Eventually, they both fell back asleep.

•••

Sherlock opened his eyes and checked to make sure John was still asleep before slowly grabbing his phone.

He was trying to type out a message with one hand when John awoke beside him.

"What are you doing?" He asked. Sherlock quickly finished the text before he could see and set his mobile down.

"Nothing. I mean, just Mycroft. Nothing important." His forced smile quickly faded. "I am so bloody bored in this place."

"Don't worry, they're letting us out tomorrow." Sherlock grimaced at him like even that was not soon enough. "I don't mind it so much," John continued, "reminds me of the old days."

John never talked about his time in the army, but he did then. Sherlock learned so much about his past in that one conversation, and shared some in return.

He had never talked about his relationship with Mycroft, for rather obvious reasons, but they'd been inseparable as children, so he recited a few anecdotes from the time before his brother had turned sour.

After that, Sherlock was silent for a while. Finally, he turned to John.

"Why did you risk your life to save me?" He asked. John looked startled.

"You've risked your life to save mine pretty often."

"But, before you did, it seemed like you hated me."

John laughed softly as he shook his head. "I was upset, Sherlock. Being cross with someone doesn't stop you loving them."

There was another pause.

"What exactly does that mean?"

"What-that I love you?" John asked, seeming more than a little confused, "Sorry, are you asking me to explain the concept of love?"

Sherlock looked incredibly frustrated  
with himself. "No, I just-"

"I know." John unsuccessfully attempted to keep from laughing, "It's just entertaining to watch you try to say it without sounding like a teenage girl, but I understand what you're getting at." Sherlock stared expectantly at him, and he sighed, having difficulty with it himself. "You're trying to officially establish if you can consider me to be your boyfriend."

"And?" Sherlock barely waited for him to finish the sentence.

John grinned, rolled over, and propped himself up, putting his face hardly an inch from Sherlock's.

"Yes," he whispered, and lightly pressed his lips to the other man's. Then he laid back down, burying his face into Sherlock's uninjured shoulder, and fell asleep.

•••

John slowly opened his eyes the next morning with the feeling that he was being watched. He looked beside him to see Sherlock laying fully dressed, if still looking a little disheveled, and staring at him impatiently.

"Jesus!" He jumped at the sight of a face peering at him like that from hardly an inch away, first thing in the morning. "How long have you-"

"Since 12:01. They're releasing us today, remember? Now get up," Sherlock ordered, but he smiled. John groaned, taking his pillow and playfully throwing it into Sherlock's face.

"Five more minutes," he teased. For answer, Sherlock stood and dropped a pile of John's clothes on top of him.

Sighing, John carefully sat up and grabbed his shirt, waiting for the nurses to change his bandages and help him dress.

"You're really going to miss this place, aren't you?" He laughed. Sherlock just looked at him, and made a low noise that sounded something like a growl as he glanced around the room with incredible distain.

•••

Sherlock drummed his fingers anxiously on his thigh as John filled out a few papers and finished up the process of checking themselves out of the hospital. While John didn't particularly mind being there, and as funny as it was to watch Sherlock's uncomfortable feelings about the place, he did understand, somewhat; it would be nice to be home again.

John didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it was incredibly annoying to step through the doors and immediately be greeted by a swarm of journalists.

If only 221B were directly next door to the hospital. That would've been nice.

The reporters seemed to form a circle around them, a sort of bubble of press that followed perfectly in step with them to ask questions without ever letting them get out of sight.

John and Sherlock both said a silent prayer of thanks when a black car pulled up to the curb. They broke through several walls of people as fast as they could, to clamber into the back seat. John locked the door behind him, knowing it was probably unnecessary but still feeling a little better once he had.

This car was different from the others; it was wider, so the backseat comfortably sat three, and who was in the final seat but the British government, secret service, and CIA, the queen himself, Mycroft Holmes.

He and Sherlock very deliberately did not look at each other for some time, and John was tempted to actually try cutting the tension with a knife, because in this situation he wouldn't be surprised if it was physically possible.

"Shut up," Mycroft said after quite a few minutes of uncomfortable silence.

"I didn't say anything." Sherlock said, staring past John, out the window.

"You were thinking." Was that just something everyone in the Holmes family could tell?

"Yes I was, but that's hardly something you'd know about," he responded with a slight, smug grin. The tight-lipped glare that came over Mycroft's face made John want to laugh.

"Don't challenge me, brother," he said coldly. Sherlock finally turned to him, unfolding his arms.

"How hard is it for you to just admit you were wrong?"

•••

As he and Mycroft carried on pretending to argue, Sherlock turned over the hand that lay between them, so his palm faced up.

He recognized the plain gold band that Mycroft discreetly placed in his hand; it had been his father's. As he closed his fist around it and slipped it into his pocket, careful that John didn't see, he wondered whether Mycroft was being cheap or sentimental. Both were very unlike him.

•••

When the car reached 221B, Mycroft dismissively waved a hand at them, and they wasted no time in getting out, grateful to be able to step inside their home once again.

However, the difficulty they had doing so, and the fact that Sherlock was unable to take off his coat once inside, because of his shoulder, indicated that their lives might not quite go back to normal immediately.

John walked up behind his struggling boyfriend-he was still adjusting a little to officially using that word-and aided him in removing the trench coat.

"I feel like an old man," Sherlock complained, taking his coat from John and laying hanging it on his door. John chuckled.

"Well, you better get used to it. Might be this way for a while."

It apparently didn't occur to John that it might be that way for him as well, because he entered the bathroom to take a shower, not bothering the extra trouble of shutting the door, and attempted to undress. After a few tries, he realized that it was simply not possible for him to so much as raise his arms above his head, and he dropped his hands to his sides and sighed.

"Yes?" Sherlock stood in the hall, watching him, appearing very amused. John actually turned to him with a sad, puppy dog look.

"Help."

Sherlock smiled as he walked forward and gently pulled John's jumper over his head using his good arm. John was able to undo the button of his trousers perfectly fine, but still needed Sherlock's aid in tugging them and his pants down before he could step out of them.  
Sherlock didn't question it when John turned to him and responded in kind.

•••

Sighing, John finally put down the bar of soap he was holding and rinsed the suds from his arms; it wasn't as if he'd ever had any actual chance of focusing on that.

He turned so he was completely facing Sherlock, who was giving him 'the look'. John rolled his eyes, but smiled because, for once, Sherlock was right.

John took a step forward as the other man leant down to kiss him, lightly pressing a hand to the small of his back, further closing the gap between them. His fingers played at Sherlock's hair, winding through the raven-colored curls.

As Sherlock's tongue danced across his, hot water falling and steam rising all around the two of them, John began to gasp for breath, and he did not care one bit.

•••

When Mrs. Hudson had finished the shopping, she immediately went upstairs; the boys were supposed to be back at home today. The front door was left just slightly ajar, however upon entering she seemed to be alone in the flat.

Then she saw, through the open door, the two of them snuggled up together, asleep, in Sherlock's bedroom. And she had to admit it was adorable.

"'Of course we'll be needing two.' As if I hadn't eyes!" She laughed to herself.

•••

Awoken by the sense that someone was watching him, Sherlock brushed a damp piece of hair away from his face and looked down the hall to see Mrs. Hudson looking in at them. Her phone was in her hand.

"What are- Are you taking a photograph?" Sherlock almost screeched, reaching behind his head and sitting up to throw his pillow at her. She laughed as she dodged it, but then suddenly her eyes widened a little and she walked quickly away, blushing.

Confused, Sherlock glanced down and realized that the sheets had slipped. They pooled loosely around his waist, putting him- well, a few inches of fabric away from indecent exposure. It must have been a bit startling for Mrs. Hudson to realize...

Sherlock turned his head to see John raising his eyebrows at him, suppressing a smile. Eventually, neither of them could keep from bursting out with laughter, and they fell back asleep giggling.

•••

A few months later, things were staring to go back to normal. John and Sherlock continued life as it was before Moriarty came into the picture.

Sherlock had just solved yet another case and was silently sitting in a cab next to his boyfriend.

Slowly, he reached over with the arm he was beginning to regain full use of and picked up John's hand, tracing his fingertips over the scars left by Moriarty.

When the cab dropped them off and they walked up the steps to 221B, Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder, signaling for him to stop.

"There's been a break in," he said, examining the door. John studied it as well, but could find nothing wrong.

"But it looks fine. How can you tell..." He trailed off as Sherlock threw him a look- 'Of course I can tell, I'm me'.

"The lock's been tampered with." Sherlock saw the clear signs of a lock pick, tiny scuff marks around the edges of the keyhole that a proper key didn't leave.

He gingerly opened the door, and his eyes darted around the flat but saw nothing out of place. Well, nothing but the fact that someone else had been inside, walking about; nothing was missing or even moved, for the most part.

It really was all quite unusual, but he simply shrugged and went off to the bedroom to change.

John grabbed a bottle from the cabinet and took his meds before following.

•••

As they entered the restaurant, John silently tugged at his tie-Sherlock didn't see the point in dressing up to go out, as proven by his wardrobe incident at Buckingham Palace, but tonight they were both dressed in suits-with one clammy hand. He was beginning to feel a bit feverish, but it was nothing worth worrying Sherlock over.

They were seated at their reserved table and served the best food John had ever had. Amazingly, Sherlock ate the meal like a normal human being, and even agreed to split a desert with him.

When it arrived, the waiter set down in front of John a plate that made him gape in shock. A slow smile crept over his face, and he closed his eyes to keep them from watering.

What seemed to be a chocolate sauce curled around the edge of the plate, spelling out in cursive "Will you marry me?" In the center of the dish sat a small velvet box.

At a loss for words, John picked it up and flipped the lid open to admire the ring inside.

He raised his eyes to Sherlock, who was watching him expectantly.

"Oh god yes."

•••

The next day, Lestrade phoned to say that he was in the middle of a case and needed Sherlock's help with something. As they walked in, John subconsciously twisted the ring on his left hand.

Sherlock was beginning to speak to Lestrade when he noticed the soft whispers and odd stares of everyone else in the room. He realized that they were all looking at John's hand.

"Stop doing that," he said, and John, becoming aware of what he was doing, let his hands fall to his sides.

Now everyone was simply watching Sherlock silently. He sighed.

"Oh yes; 'engagement ring'- brilliant deduction! Would you all like to take over the job I'm here to do, then, or will you get back to your proper work?" He shouted impatiently.

Resuming what they had been doing before, they all tried to pretend nothing had happened. Even Lestrade had an odd smirk on his face for the rest of the case.

•••

"You know, it's getting pretty close. Shouldn't my parents be told about this?" The thought suddenly occurred to John as he was updating his blog, a couple months later.

Sherlock looked skeptical.

"Mightn't they be a bit wary of something like this, given what happened with your sister?" He had a point.

"Yes," John admitted, "In fact, they've been wary of either of their children having any kind of love life ever since then. But, I mean, what am I going to do, just not mention it until I happens to come up? 'Yes, it is lovely weather we're having, oh and by the way I got married. To a bloke.'"

"Alright, go ahead then," Sherlock sighed.

John's parents did not take the news quite as well as he had hoped.

They told him it was a mistake marrying the 'attention seeking detective', and he rolled his eyes as they gave a him a ten minute lecture, which would have gone on even longer if he hasn't made an excuse to get off the phone.

"Well, then," he sighed frustratedly, tossing his phone down on the sofa.

•••

Throughout the next week, articles appeared in the local papers about 'The Wedding of the Century'.

Mycroft was really going all out with the planning, to the point that Sherlock was beginning to get annoyed, though John knew that inside he appreciated it.

On July 21, 195 Piccadilly was bustling with activity. While guests finished taking their seats on either side of the aisle that faced the outdoor ceremony, waiters and waitresses put the final touches on everything inside, in preparation for the reception.

Multi-colored centerpieces drew attention to the round tables draped with snowy white cloth. Sparkling crystal glasses stood beside beautifully patterned china and silverware. The chairs, indoors and out, were decorated with bright silk ribbons.

At the end of the aisle, vines wound up around the legs of a white wooden arch, under which John stood beside the officiant. There was an unusual feeling in John's stomach, and he was almost certain his heart actually skipped a beat, but he decided it was just nerves. Trying to shake it off and think of something else, he looked around nervously at his disapproving family and smiling friends.

That slight nervousness turned to paralyzingly fear when his eyes landed on a man in the audience with dark hair and eyes that had a terribly evil spark, like John was peering into the soul of the devil himself. He was opening his mouth to point him out when everyone suddenly turned around, except that man, who continued to stare smugly at John.

John looked up and realized that everyone was looking at Sherlock, who for once did not appear one bit upset about having to wear a tux. He began to walk down the path, alone.

Since his father had passed away years ago, John had wanted to find someone else to 'give him away', but Sherlock protested that he was not a bride and it wasn't necessary.

For a moment, everything else in the world disappeared. Even the malicious stare of a particular man vanished from John's thoughts as his eyes met those of his love, the one person he cared for more than anything else.

Sherlock smiled softly at John, unable to see anything but him. John beamed, but all at once the smile fell from his face and the bright look left his eyes.

Sherlock seemed to watch in slow motion as John lurched forward and then fell to the ground.

Guests stood, started speaking to one another in panicked voices, pulled out mobile phones to call 999, but none of it registered in Sherlock's mind.

He rushed forward to fall to his knees beside John and hold him in his arms.

•••

In the emergency room waiting area, Sherlock struggled not to break down entirely. He'd been as still as stone since arriving at the hospital, covering his distressed face with his hands. John would've told him he looked like a Weeping Angel.

John was a hardcore Whovian.

John.

How had this happened?

The best day of his entire life had finally come along, only to morph into the worst day of his life.

He did not lift his head, but his ears pricked up when he recognized the voices of two of the doctors who he knew were tending to John.

"It's like he's been taking daily doses of it. The poison has been destroying his system for months."

"I know. I don't think there's anything else we can do. How long?"

"At the outside, weeks."

•••

That word echoed in Sherlock's mind, trying to force him to accept something he wished he hadn't even heard.

'Weeks.

Oh God.

No.

Please.

No.'

Sherlock raised his face from his hands and rested his fingertips under his chin. Everything he saw and heard around him seemed to blur, as though there was static interference.

Physically, he was sitting in the waiting room at the hospital, attempting and failing to process this, but at the same time, he wasn't really there. He was a stranger, on the outside looking in.

A hand gently laying on his shoulder dragged him back to reality, and he glanced up to see Mycroft.

The look on his face frightened Sherlock; he'd only rarely seen even an ounce of emotion from Mycroft. Now he seemed almost on the verge of tears, though his strain to hide it was apparent.

Sherlock had been expecting to get a repetition of the 'caring is not an advantage' speech, but Mycroft's thoughts were clearly so far from that.

'My brother searched his whole life for something to care about and now he's going to lose that' was practically written in Mycroft's eyes.

That just tore Sherlock apart even more. He knew how much it took to upset Mycroft.

•••

Mycroft had been rather close with their father, more so than he had ever been to another person. He'd seemed to be the only person who understood him. The only 'friend' he ever knew.

The day he died, Mycroft didn't shed a tear. Sherlock thought that, just for a moment, he'd seen Mycroft's mask falter, but in an instant it was expressionless again. He hid what few emotions he had well.

He couldn't imagine how upset Mycroft must be to bring him so close to crying.

A single tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek, and he turned his face away from his big brother. Almost hesitantly, Mycroft lifted his hand from Sherlock's shoulder and began to walk away. When he thought he was out of audial range, he pulled out his mobile.

"Make sure they're comfortable for the next few weeks," Sherlock heard him order the person on the other end.

For the next few weeks.

For the remainder of John's life.

•••

Hours later, Sherlock was finally allowed to go in to see John.

When he walked in, his eyes flickered to the monitor, watching the faint spikes that registered the sleeping man's heartbeat. He thought that it was such an inadequate representation of the life force of such an amazing man.

Dragging a chair up to the side of the bed, Sherlock sat and slipped his fingers under John's palm, clasping his would-be husband's hand in his own. He awkwardly cleared his throat.

"You know, they say people can hear you if you speak to them during something like this. If they're unconscious in the hospital. I'm not sure if I believe that, but then, I talk to you constantly, whether you can hear me or not," the barest shadow of a grin flickered on his face as memories passed over him, "so here it goes."

•••

"I've been thinking a lot about that day." He smiled softly. "That first day we met. I owe Mike Stamford big for that." He looked over at John's sleeping face.

"Did I ever tell you that my phone did have signal, then? I didn't need to borrow Mike's. I knew that he didn't have it on him, anyways, and that you'd offer yours. A conversation starter, in a way, and an opportunity to learn a little more about you."

He smiled for a second before continuing.

"I just..." He shook his head. "It's something I can't really explain. Love is like that, I suppose."

Sherlock glanced down at John's sleeping form before continuing.

"At our first meeting, there was nothing whatsoever to distinguish you from everyone else. All those simple-minded people, who don't even bother trying to understand something that's the least bit 'complex', let alone something like me. And yet, somehow I just knew you were different.

I didn't have anything at all, before. My life was my work, which of course was very important to me, but whenever... this," his gaze involuntarily dropped to his wrists, and he shuddered and lifted his head up, "set in, there was nothing to pull me back. Nothing to stop it, nothing to counteract it. I just fell deeper and deeper into it."

Sherlock stopped talking for a moment and took in a deep breath.

"Until you, of course. Then everything changed. It didn't have to be that way all the time. I didn't have to know sadness and nothing else, because for once-" he swallowed. "For once, there was something in my life that could make me happy. I had never realized that people could actually be pleasant company, because the great majority is so marvelously irritating, but when you were around, I didn't want you to ever leave."

•••

Sherlock stood up and began to pace around John's hospital bed.

"I know you always thought I talked to you when you weren't around because I didn't notice you'd gone out. But I talked to you when you weren't around because I didn't like that you'd gone out, and so I just acted as though you hadn't." He quietly to himself.

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"Did you ever wonder why I was so rude to your girlfriends, or did you think that was just how I was? I don't like most people, but all of those women I genuinely despised. Not for the reason you'd think, either. Well, maybe a bit for that reason, though it took me a while to realize it. No, I couldn't stand them because they genuinely thought they were good enough for you, and I marvel at how they could think so. In fact, a couple seemed to think they were too good for you, which would have been funny if it weren't so bloody annoying.

I had to try to take it into my own hands to get rid of them, because you couldn't see that they didn't deserve you.

It's funny, the things you must have assumed about me back then."

'Back then.

Before this.

Before all of this.'

"I was never a show off before. I was better, and I knew it. There was no reason to prove it to anyone. But then I had to prove it to you. Every stupid, annoying, smart-ass thing I did, I did because I needed to impress you." He paused, considering. "I'm not sure how well that tactic actually worked, but it turned out alright in the end."

It was deathly quiet when Sherlock paused. It shouldn't have been. John should have been able to respond, to laugh at him.

This was wrong.

•••

Sherlock frowned a bit before continuing to speak to his fiancé.

"I've tried, often, to remember specifically when I fell in love. I think it was much earlier than I realized. It just sort of took me by surprise; I'd never expected to find someone. People like me don't. We grow old and die alone. I think it's against some kind of unspoken rule that I could ever be happy with someone." He drew a deep breath.

"But I needed you," he almost whispered, "I was so alone. There are seven billion people on this planet, and I was so completely alone in the world.

People don't realize why a frightening thing it is, loneliness. When you realize that there is nobody you trust, that there is nobody who knows or understands you in the slightest, that everyone around you has family and friends and you have nothing, it just..."

He stopped and blinked the tears out of his eyes.

"I was afraid. God, I was so afraid. Because I didn't understand. Superficially, I knew everything. I could see everything, about every other person on earth, and yet I didn't understand me. If I tried to think about who, or what, I really was, I came up short. But then you came along, and helped me understand. I never realized just how confused I was until you made everything clear."

Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at John's sleeping form.

"You've done so much for me. I can't imagine how difficult I must have become at some points, but you never gave up on me. That faith you had in me saved my life. You are the only reason I was able to hold on. The only reason I even wanted to recover, to stay strong, was that you believed I could do it. I didn't feel I could, but I didn't want to let you down. And eventually, you convinced me that maybe I could do it.

One day it struck me that I am not who I used to be. I am a different man, a better man, now, because of my love for you. I didn't think anyone could ever change what I was. I'm so unbelievably glad that I was wrong."

He sighed.

"Of course, Jim Moriarty had to go and screw that royal," Sherlock's eyes lit up with rage, and he tried to cool down. Finally, he said, "There will never be words to describe how much I hate that man. I had less than nothing when he took you away."

'And he's doing it to me again,' he thought, but decided it wasn't a good thing to say out loud.

•••

Sherlock closed his eyes as he began to remember what had happened multiple weeks before.

"The only reason I couldn't let myself..." he wasn't even able to say it, "was that I knew you wouldn't want me to. It was like being revived from the grave when they told me you were alive, but at the same time it just cut me deeper; I knew what Hell you must have been going through all that time, and it was my fault. That's why I couldn't bear to see those injures; it was like I'd given them to you."

He walked closer and gently lifted John's hand, running his fingers over the ring, and brought it to his lips. "I am so, so sorry for that," he murmured.

"I think it was during that period of recovery when I first knew just how grateful I was to whatever higher power might exist, for bringing me to you. I knew that there was no one else I could ever spend my life with.

Truth be told, I'd had that proposal planned for a very long time, but I never thought I'd have the chance to execute it. It was quite a shock when I did. Of course, I expected that Mycroft would take charge of the planning and go way overboard with it, but it didn't matter. You and I were going to be together, and everything was going to be perfect." Sherlock choked on the last few words, and took a moment to collect himself.

This once, he could be strong and not cry. He was just so angry at himself.

"I ought to have seen this coming. I could have stopped it. I should have known who it was, when we had that break in at the flat. I should never have let you keep taking those pills." Sherlock's voice was shaking, and he wiped the tears that he could no longer hold back out of his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, John." he tried to say normally, though all he could manage was a whisper.

"I love you," he said in a more audible voice, "I don't think I say that often enough. There are a lot of things I should have said, a long time ago, but-" he struggled to keep his voice steady, "I just thought we had all the time in the world." He smiled sadly.

"I hope you know how much I love you."

It suddenly hit Sherlock how little sleep he'd gotten recently, and how exhausting the past twenty-four hours had been on top of that. He barely sat down next to John's bed before his eyes slowly began to droop shut.

•••

Sherlock gasped as he jolted awake and sat up in the chair, which really could have stood to be a bit more comfortable.

John's eyes were open, staring into his, and he feebly reached out a hand. Sherlock quickly took it, locking their fingers together. John gripped his hand with more force than his entire body appeared to have at the moment. John's smile said that he could fight this, that he was strong, but he was blinking back tears.

Sherlock began to realize that he was John's rock just as much as John was his. They were both so dependent on having the other around; they needed to be together.

He and John were absolutely two halves, more so than any other people had ever been. Apart, they could never be complete.

After that sad silence of realization, John weakly said, "You know what, fuck this. I am not going to spend the rest of my life in a bed." Sherlock stood and reached a hand toward him, but didn't really do anything as John carefully sat up. However, when he tried to stand, his knees buckled immediately and Sherlock had to catch him.

John laid back with a terrified, hopeless expression on his face.  
Neither of them thought it had progressed to that point yet.

He couldn't walk anymore. He couldn't stand anymore- never again.

John turned to Sherlock, and he looked like a lost child. He had never been so scared.

They knew things were going to get much worse.

•••

Though he had left the hospital, it was all Mycroft could do to sit and stare at his phone, anxiously tapping the table in front of him. He hadn't touched the food on it; that made even his secretary worry about what could possibly be so wrong.

Finally he received an update text, informing him of the main events since he'd left. Almost instantly he wished he hadn't.

The motor function in his legs, lost already. He was worse off than Mycroft had realized.

He typed out a response:

'Justice Lowe. MH'

•••

The door to John's room opened, and he and Sherlock looked up to see a man they didn't recognize standing just inside the doorway.

Sherlock's eyes darted from his head to his toes and back. 'A justice of the peace.' He thought to himself.

"Are you ready?" He asked them.

John and Sherlock glanced at each other.

"Mycroft," John mused softly. Sherlock gave a thin smile. Mycroft wasn't going to let John die without making sure they were married first. He supposed his older brother wasn't always such a prick.

•••

Once the 'ceremony' was over and Justice Lowe had left, Sherlock sat gingerly on the great empty space beside John on the hospital bed. He leaned down to plant a light kiss on his husband's lips and laid down beside him, still watching him like a hawk.

•••

Dr. Ryan Matthews was rifling through some paperwork when he came across the records of the patient in room 135, and squinted at it for a moment.

"John Hamish Watson" had been written on the original, but "-Holmes" was added onto the end with a thick black marker.

•••

John was discharged from the hospital the next day. Nobody said it outright, but the doctors knew he didn't have much time left, and thought he'd prefer to spend his remaining days in his own home.

Sherlock held his arm around John, essentially carrying him up the stairs while he tried to take steps. He had really only pretended to sleep last night, so Sherlock wouldn't worry, and once he was sitting on his own sofa, back in 221B, he leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder and began to doze off.

Sherlock cautiously slid his phone out of his pocket, to check whether there might be any cases they could solve without leaving the flat.

Text Message:  
'It isn't too late, you know. JM'

Sherlock knew this wasn't a man to be trusted, but he couldn't help the tiny spark of hope those words lit in the recesses of his lusterless heart.

His fingers shook as he typed out a reply.

'What do you mean? SH'

Instantly, another message jumped onscreen.

'You can still save him. If you want.  
The only way to cure his illness is to give him the antidote formed from the original poison itself. Which, obviously, I alone have.

If you come to me, I'll be sure it gets to him. You'll die, but he will live.

Or you could sit at home and watch helplessly as the life is drained completely from his body.

The choice is yours. -JM'

•••

AN: Thanks for reading! I hope to return soon with another update. Thank you! Please review!


	2. Chapter 2: Chapter 12

AN: We're back! Thank you so much for all your kind words and reviews! Before we begin, I have a few things to say: 1) THANK YOU! 2) Harliesue, thank you so much for all your PM's. It has truly been a pleasure to talk with you. 3) Dear Co-Writer, YOU ARE AMAZING. I'm sorry that you had to write this. 4) I'm sorry guys but I had to.

[TW: Character Death]

•••

Sherlock drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. His life for John's. Obviously he would do it; he had to. There was nothing he wouldn't do for John.

He didn't even have trouble coming to terms with his own death- his conflict was leaving John. He would rather John live without him than simply die this way, but he knew what it was like, trying to go on without your other half. It wasn't just that the person you were so devoted to was gone, it was more than that. Half of you disappeared with them. It was an empty feeling. The epitome of loneliness. He hated knowing that he was about to do that to John. Still, John could have a good life without Sherlock. It would be alright- or so Sherlock tried to tell himself.

For the next few hours, as John slept, Sherlock sat watching him, studying every inch of that beautiful, and for once peaceful looking, face. He felt his life had purpose just to know that John would live because of him.

•••

When John opened his eyes, he had no idea how much later, Sherlock was sitting beside him, in apparently the exact same position. John wondered whether he'd moved at all. Sherlock smiled at him, a little sadly.

"John," he began quietly, "John, have I ever told you just how much I love you?" John squinted at him.

"Only every day," he responded matter-of-factly.

"Well, I do. You are the only thing in my life that's ever really mattered. You're my world, my everything."

John nodded hesitantly. "And you are mine."

What had prompted this?

Wait.

John recognized that glint in his husband's eye. "Sherlock," he warned, "I know that 'look'."

"How many 'looks' do I have?" He sounded genuinely confused.

"Quite a few," John said dismissively, "and that one means you're going to try to play hero. You think you can save me, don't you?"

Sherlock seemed to consider lying, but he nodded. John smirked half-heartedly.

"Oh, my beautiful idiot," John said as he shook his head, "It's too late. I'm too far gone." Sherlock stuck out his chin stubbornly. John gently took his hand, looking into his eyes. "It's okay," he whispered, "I've led a wonderful life. I have explored, and chased, and fought, and discovered. Adventured. And loved." He smiled. "Even got married- though, admittedly, that didn't happen quite the way I expected."

Sherlock laughed, but his heart wasn't really in it. John squeezed his hand.

"There are no regrets."

Seeing he could make no argument about that, Sherlock just sighed and carefully lifted John off the couch, carrying him in his arms over to their bedroom. While John slowly drifted off into sleep, Sherlock lay beside him, stroking his hair and staring out the window. Ominous grey clouds were shielding the sun, and raindrops began to fall.

It seemed fitting.

•••

Sherlock cautiously rose from the bed, making sure not to wake John, and shut the door behind him as he slipped into the other room and pulled out his mobile. He dialed a number- it barely rang twice before he heard a voice on the other end.

"We need to talk."

"Yes." Mycroft responded monotonously, and then just hung up.

A few minutes later, Sherlock looked down at the street below and saw the top of an umbrella disappearing under the overhang of Speedy's, next door. He grabbed his coat and went downstairs to meet his brother.

Mycroft was sitting in a booth at the back of the cafe when Sherlock walked in. He silently took the seat opposite.

"What do you need?" For once, there was no condescension in that; in his time of peril, Sherlock's brother really did care. That would have been touching if it weren't such a sobering comment on the severity of the situation.

"I need to stop that bastard."

Mycroft hardly looked surprised. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you what an idiotic idea that is." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John needs you, Sherlock. You can't die on him, not now."

"What's the point in staying alive if he isn't with me?" Sherlock snapped.

"You must know he'll feel exactly the same way." Mycroft leaned forward across the table. "Stay with him. Please. Respect his last wish. You owe him that much." Sherlock wouldn't meet his brother's eye for a long time.

Finally, he let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"No." Sherlock said as he stood up.

"I owe him my life. I'd give it a thousand times over to save him." And with that, he left, appearing not to notice the rain one bit as he stepped purposefully back into 221 B.

•••

When Sherlock opened the door to the bedroom, John was lying awake, motionless, and staring up at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face. Sherlock uncertainly took a step forward.

"John?"

He didn't turn his head, but his eyes looked vaguely in Sherlock's direction. When he spoke, his voice was shaking.

"I. Can't. Move," he bit off each word with what sounded like an attempt at anger when really he had just given up. Sherlock rushed to his side, and after struggling for about twenty minutes, John was able to sit up.

He fell onto Sherlock's shoulder, his entire body trembling.

"I'm afraid," he choked out between sobs. The two thin arms of John's husband wrapped around him.

"I know," he pressed a soft kiss on John's cheek, "I'm here." John nodded, and the tremors that shook him gradually stopped.

Sherlock more than half-carried him over to the sofa, and they sat watching each other in silence for a few minutes, processing how fast this was happening.

"I can stop this, you know," Sherlock finally whispered, "I can save you."

"Sherlock, no." John said firmly, "You are not risking you life for me. Not again."

Sherlock was persistent. "I talked to Mycroft a little while ago, and-"

"And what? What did he say?" John knew that Mycroft, of all people, would see what a stupid idea this was. Sherlock hung his head.

"Well.. he said... I should..." He trailed off. John took his hand and cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, I've never asked for much. I think it's fair of me to make one request, in light of what's happening." He lifted Sherlock's chin to look into his eyes, and when he spoke again his voice was nearly inaudible.

"I just want you to be the last thing I see," he fought back tears, "Please. Just stay with me until... until..." John stopped talking and took a few deep breaths.

Sherlock couldn't speak, and simply nodded. John's eyelids began to droop; against his will, Sherlock's brain reminded him that sleeping this frequently was often a warning sign of-

No. He couldn't complete the thought. He might know what was going on, but he refused to accept the fact that John was dying.

"Hey," he said softly. John gave a start and looked up a him. "When was the last time you ate?" John laughed.

"What?"

"Usually, aren't I the one asking you that?"

Sherlock smiled and got up to make John something. As he was preparing the tea, he glanced over to make sure John wasn't watching him and added something that looked like sugar to the amber liquid.

He brought the tray of food over to the sofa and set it before John, eyes on him like a watchdog while he ate, making sure he drank the tea as well. As soon as he was finished, John laid back down and closed his eyes. Sherlock glanced at the completely empty teacup.

He ought to be sleeping for a while.

Sherlock scribbled a few short sentences on a piece of paper, folded it, and left it on the coffee table with 'John' written on the front. He leaned over to kiss his sleeping husband's forehead and walked slowly to the door. There he stopped, glancing around the flat solemnly, one last time, before he left.

Sherlock hailed a cab and pulled out his mobile to ask where he was to meet Moriarty, but there was already a message from him. The address sent a little involuntary shiver down Sherlock's spine.

"Lauriston Gardens," he said to the cabbie as he crawled inside.

•••

As he entered the abandoned house that had been his first crime scene with John, he absently thought how boring it must be for couples who were sentimental about the first cinema they'd been to, and things of that nature. Crime scenes made for much more interesting memories.

There was no need to wonder which room he was to go to; he climbed the familiar stairs and found Jim Moriarty sitting at a table, inches from where Jessica Wilson's body had been found. He gave a sinister grin as Sherlock sat in the chair opposite him, and took out two small glass bottles, each containing an identical pill, and set them on the table.

"Look familiar, Sherlock?"

A Study In Pink.

Moriarty shrugged, "His first case. This is where his life with you began. Seems only right it should end in the same place." He pushed the bottles toward Sherlock. "I'm sure I don't need to explain the rules to you, but it's just more fun that way: One is the antidote, one is cyanide. You take one, the other goes to him. You have one hour." He casually pulled out a handgun. "But don't worry," he held the gun to the side and fired it out the window; there was no one near enough to hear the shot, "This time it's real."

•••

John was a bit disoriented when he woke up. It seemed he'd slept a bit longer than normal, but he had become more or less immune to that stuff he'd seen Sherlock 'discreetly' putting in his tea; they'd administered it to him quite a lot when he was recovering from that gunshot wound therefore the effects weren't as strong to him as they would be to an average person.

His eyes landed on the folded slip if paper with his name and he grabbed it, fumbling to open it for a minute.

'I had to save you. I'm sorry. Don't you dare try to follow. The antidote should arrive shortly. All my funds are being transferred to you. Take care of yourself.

Live well. Be happy. I love you. SH'

John knew he should have seen this coming, but he was still a bit stunned. He picked up his phone to text Mycroft.

'I need your help. JW'

Hardly a minute later, it buzzed with a reply.

'This is really not a good time. MH'

Damn right it was not a good time.

'Not a good time? Mycroft, your idiot brother went after Moriarty. He's going to die! Maybe you don't care, but I do. I love him. I know that's not a concept you're familiar with, but please! All you've ever done is fuck up his life- just this once, couldn't you... You know what, fuck it. Stupid of me to think you'd want to help us. You never have. JW'

John angrily shoved his mobile back in his pocket and reached for the cane that was leaning against the back of the sofa. Normally, even with crutches, he wouldn't be able to make it to the door on his own, but in the moment he had enough adrenaline to make it possible.

Even still, he fell down a few times before even making it to the top if the stairs.

"Ah, gravity," he muttered as he picked himself up for the third time, "thou art a heartless bitch."

Perhaps in payback, at that exact moment gravity took him tumbling down the steps, and his head knocked against the bottom stair.

•••

Sherlock had distinguished which pill was which within a matter of seconds, of course, but he waited until the fifty-ninth minute to make the official call. John's life was on the line; he had to be sure. He closed his fingers around the bottle on the left.

Moriarty smirked. "Good choice, love." He took the other bottle and waved over a man who'd been standing motionlessly in the corner of the dark room. The man left with the antidote, presumably to have it delivered to John. After the door had closed behind him, Moriarty motioned at the other bottle with the barrel of the gun.

Sherlock popped the lid off and shook the pill into his hand. Just for insurance, Moriarty raised the gun and pointed it at Sherlock's forehead.

As Sherlock raised the cyanide to his lips, a distant thundering noise rose up to meet them. Even Moriarty looked away from Sherlock. The door suddenly burst open and fell off its hinges, and lo an behold, there stood a group of men who were prepared to fight to the death. Sherlock glanced at the men and recognized far too many faces.

'Mycroft.' Sherlock realized.

Suddenly, it was like a scene straight out of a Bond movie. Professional-looking men, many in suits, rushed at each other. There was less than five minutes of hand-to-hand combat, which was impossible to keep track of and seemed much more like an eternity, before weapons were drawn.

Two simultaneous shots rang out through the house.

Suddenly it was dead quiet.

The men parted like the Red Sea around the two bodies.

The fighting could have continued, but everyone present knew that would be pointless. It was over with.

Done.

•••

Detective Inspector Lestrade was flipping through paperwork at the Yard when he got the call.

"Hello?"

The entire events of the night were explained to him, as gently as possible; it was rather jarring news, after all. He felt that an enormous weight was lifted from his shoulders when he was told of Jim Moriarty's death.

But his heart sank with the words, "That man-Holmes- he was killed as well."

After hanging up and recovering from his initial shock, Greg knew that he had to tell John about what had happened. He didn't even hear the inquiries about where he was off to when he left.

There was something small, wrapped with brown paper, sitting on the front steps of 221B, and Lestrade unfolded it to reveal an unmarked pill in a small glass bottle. He realized this must be the antidote Moriarty had promised, and carried it with him in his fist as he pushed the door open.

John was lying in a heap at the bottom of the staircase. The DI fell to his knees at the man's side to check his pulse. He suddenly breathed deeply and groggily opened his eyes. With a bit of help, he managed to sit up.

•••

John didn't like that sorrowful, regretful look he was being given.

"Greg," he asked quietly, uncertainly, "what's happened?"

Greg opened his mouth, but couldn't seem to find the words.

No.

No, no, no.

At last, Greg just reached out a hand to touch his shoulder.

"John-"

•••

AN: Please review. Thank you.


	3. Chapter 3: Chapter 13

AN: You have every right to hate us due to the long break between this update and the last. Things have been very hectic and my co-writer has been having trouble finding time to write. Without further ado, here is the next chapter!

•••

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens, was filled with people: government employees and officials alike, police, paramedics, handcuffed criminals who hadn't gotten away in time.

The man sitting on the floor didn't see any of them.

He pulled his knees to his chest and leaned back against the wall of the dilapidated room, his eyes so dull and lifeless that one of the paramedics actually had to check for his pulse to make sure he wasn't one of the casualties. When the paramedic stepped away, he turned to one of the others and cast a questioning glance at the man with the disheveled dark curls. The other man nodded at one of the bodies being taken away.

"It was his brother."

•••

As the men began to take away Mycroft's body, Sherlock suddenly rose from the ground, though he didn't appear any more alive. He looked like something out of Dawn of the Dead.

"Stop."

He didn't have the energy to say anything else, but the officers could tell they shouldn't question it. They glanced at each other and moved away from the body.

Sherlock looked down at the expressionless features of his brother. This was all just so surreal. All his life, Sherlock's brother had seemed so untouchable, practically invincible. It shouldn't have been possible for him to lay dead from something so simple as a bullet.

After examining corpses for years without a second thought, there was only a handful that affected Sherlock. The weight of death so rarely hit him, but now it felt like he was being buried alive.

'All lives end.' Mycroft's voice echoed in his mind.

'Shut up.' He thought back sharply, 'That was never supposed to apply to you.'

'Caring is not an advantage.'

'I said shut up.'

•••

John couldn't hear the end of what Greg was saying- which was just as well, since Greg couldn't finish saying it; he pushed himself to his feet and, with great difficulty, grabbed his cane and limped as best he could outside. The cab that Lestrade had taken to 221B was still at the curb, and John climbed into it without even glancing back at the DI. He'd caught an address somewhere in the news that Lestrade hadn't fully delivered, and he ordered the cabbie to Lauriston Gardens.

When he arrived, the great crowd of people still hovered around the building, some just leaving but most remaining inside. John stumbled towards them, most of his weight leaning on the cane.

As he hauled himself up the stairs, his mind was filled with so many thoughts and memories from the first time he'd been here.

When Sherlock had just been that strange, arrogant detective who somehow knew everything except how to stop sounding like a smart ass.

When he first became the man John would kill for, and did, about twenty-four hours later.

When John had been... 'straight'.

Sherlock's behavior had only gotten more peculiar after that first night, but John never thought twice about it. Well, now there would be nothing to think twice about.

Sherlock was dead.

But suddenly, when John stepped into the room, his life did a complete 180. For the body lying there, like a stand in for Jessica Wilson, was not the body of Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft... He had died protecting his little brother.

•••

John's eyes darted across the room, to the figure of a man curled up against the wall, and then back to the body. He shut his eyes and slowly pulled out his mobile.

'Text Messages

Sent

To: Mycroft Holmes'

John scanned over the message he now so regretted, feeling the pit of his stomach drop.

'Not a good time? Mycroft, your idiot brother went after Moriarty. He's going to die! Maybe you don't care, but I do. I love him. I know that's not a concept you're familiar with, but please! All you've ever done is fuck up his life- just this once, couldn't you... You know what, fuck it. Stupid of me to think you'd want to help us. You never have. JW'

John cursed himself for being such an idiot.

He walked over to Sherlock, who had tears running silently down his cheeks, dropped to his knees beside him. John reached out slowly and gently took Sherlock's hand in his.

Sherlock flinched before relaxing into his husband's shoulder.

"He-" Sherlock choked out almost inaudibly. When he tried to continue the thought, it came out as a whimper. He closed his mouth and buried his face further into John's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, love." John whispered, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. He was just grateful that Sherlock was alive, but he wished there was something, anything, he could do to help. Even John was having trouble processing- Mycroft was really gone.

•••

After his sobs had died down, Sherlock got to his feet and slowly made his way to where Mycroft's body was, the sheet that he had stopped them from pulling up laying at his feet. Sherlock took it in his shaking hands and tugged at it until it covered the face of his brother's corpse. He pulled out his phone.

'Text Messages

New Message

To: Athena

I regret to inform you that my brother...'

•••

The next morning, John awoke and hobbled into the kitchen with relative ease- Moriarty had been true to his word about the antidote- to find Sherlock draped across the sofa, remote in hand, flipping through channels. He probably hadn't slept at all; John had tried to stay up with him, but he'd insisted that John was recovering from an illness and if he went to sleep for a few hours it wasn't the end of the world.

When Sherlock paused on BBC News, they were talking about the death of the wanted criminal James Moriarty. It was good, of course, that he was dead, and they had a right to make a big deal of it, but John knew what it meant to Sherlock.

"No mention of him?" He asked softly, leaning on the arm of the sofa as he reached down to stroke Sherlock's hair. Sherlock shook his head.

"Not surprisingly. Someone like him could never exactly be well-known, for the good of the country. Somebody's probably going to a great deal of trouble to make sure they don't even talk about there being a second body." He spoke as though it didn't matter, but John saw the disapproval in his eyes. His brother deserved to be recognized.

•••

The sun forced a decently warm and pleasant day upon them when Sherlock and John went to the 'funeral' a week later. It wasn't, in the strictest sense of the word, a real funeral. Friends and employees had been informed of the date and time at which the urn would be buried, but when the Watson-Holmes couple arrived at the grave, they seemed to be the only living things in the place.

The two of them stood alone before a plain headstone with the name 'Mycroft Holmes' printed across the top in bold letters, without even a date.

They waited for a bit, thinking perhaps they should wait for someone else to show up, but gradually John realized that no one was going to come.

No friends.

No assistants.

Not even Mycroft's own mother.

Mycroft had been so detached from the rest of humanity. That never occurred to John before; that was just how the Holmes brothers were: antisocial. But this was different. This went beyond antisocial. Even sociopaths could have some human connection.

Sherlock had him.

Mycroft had nobody.

•••

Eventually, Sherlock stepped forward and awkwardly laid a hand on the stone.

"I am sorry, brother," Sherlock said quietly, "I should have listened to you. I always should have listened. If I weren't so... the way that I am... maybe this wouldn't have..." he trailed off and took a deep breath to steady his voice. "I'm sorry."

As Sherlock lifted his hand and began to step back, John moved forward a bit, feeling he had unfinished business with Mycroft, something that could never be completely resolved.

"I-" he began, uncertain of what he could really say. "I'm sorry." He finally decided, "You were right. I'm so sorry."

And with that, the two of them turned around to leave, only to find a man in a black suit, who apparently had approached them without making any sound whatsoever, standing behind them. He silently held out a slip of paper to each of them and left as soon as they took the notes.

•••

'Hello brother.

If you are reading this, I must be dead- truly dead, not like what you pulled. I am sorry. I'm sorry I never helped you. I'm sorry I was never there for you, even when we were children.

Look after John. I love you, dear brother.

MH'

•••

'Hello John.

It would seem I must be dead. What a shame.

I always made an effort to help him, but nothing ever changed until you came along. You made a difference. I should never have interfered.

I am sorry. Forgive me.

Look after my brother Dr. Watson.

MH'

•••

Before they returned to 221B, Sherlock and John stopped by at Mycroft's office, to gather his things. They had no use for it, but it needed to be cleared out nevertheless, and Sherlock did plan on keeping a few things.

Mycroft's phone lay on the table. Sherlock silently picked it up and turned it over, examining the pristine metal for a moment, and then slipped it into his pocket.

Once they'd packed up essentially everything, they turned to leave and saw an umbrella leaning against the wall by the door. Sherlock stepped slowly towards it and took it in both hands, spinning it around absently.

"Did I ever tell you about the umbrella he had as a kid?" He mused, and glanced at John, who shook his head. "Never let go of that thing. It was honestly a little scary. One day he lost it, and by that I mean mummy hid it, so he got a stuffed elephant, and named it Umbrella." Sherlock paused and looked up from the item in his hands, furrowing his brow and squinting in thought at the memory. "Mummy was a bit worried about him."

John smiled sadly and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, gently leading him out of the office. The boxes they'd filled with Mycroft's possessions were being loaded up into a series of black cars outside by men who formerly worked for him. Sherlock and John got into the cab that was waiting for them and ordered the cabbie to Baker Street.

•••

Sherlock took John's hand in his, still gripping the handle of the umbrella with the other, as they walked somberly up the path to their front door. The world still looked a bit blurred, everything just out of focus enough that it didn't seem real.

When they got inside, John removed his jacket and laid it over the back of the sofa. He turned around to see that Sherlock had gone into the bedroom, and was laying down, staring up at the ceiling, not as if he planned on going to sleep, but as if he just didn't have the energy to do anything else.

John walked in and sat beside him, and Sherlock propped himself up slightly to lay back into John's arms.

They were silent for a long time, and finally Sherlock gave a short, sad laugh and said, "Dear god, what would I do without you?" His voice still sounded scratchy, strained like even speaking was a struggle.

John pretended to consider, and smiled softly at Sherlock. "I don't know..." He teased, "I guess it's lucky you have got me, then."

"Very." He rolled over and shut his eyes, burying his face in John's shoulder. "I love you."

"Of course you do." John dropped a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "Now rest, love."

•••

Sherlock jolted awake and sat up, sweating and panting, his shoulders heaving. His damp hair fell in his face as he tried to calm his breathing.

He flopped back onto the bed and passed a hand over his face, blocking out the images and memories that had taken over his thoughts only a few moments ago.

It happened again.

Every night for almost three months now. Goddamn nightmares.

'Jim Moriarty is dead. Never coming back. He can never hurt me or John or- or Mycroft, ever again.'

He repeated the facts over and over, but still failed to slow his heart rate any. It raced on, as did his mind, until he simply couldn't stand it.

He leapt up off the bed and paced anxiously around the flat. Somehow, he found himself in the bathroom, standing over the sink as he threw his shirt to the floor and snapped the blade out of his own razor.

He turned it slowly in his fingers, gaze running across the smooth metal edge.

'No.'

He opened his hand and let the blade fall to the tile.

No. He was doing well. He could NOT relapse.

'No.'

But a part of his thoughts chattered on, blaming and accusing.

'This is all your fault, you know.'

Sherlock scrambled to get his phone from the bedroom and crouched at the foot of the bed as he texted John.

'It's my fault. SH'

John was at work, so he didn't expect a response, but within a minute or so his phone buzzed.

'Don't say that. JW'

'This is because of me. It's all my fault. My own brother. I killed him. SH'

'Sherlock, no. JW'

'I'm the reason he's dead. SH'

'Stop it. JW'

Sherlock tossed his phone to the carpet and laid down, covering his eyes with his hands. He didn't think he was there for very long, but pretty soon he heard someone open the door. He looked up to see John standing over him.

"Why aren't you at work?"

"You come first." John lowered himself onto the bed, and Sherlock sat up, watching him. "Alright?"

"It should have been me." He muttered.

"No." John said sternly. He gently picked up Sherlock's hand and flipped it over, revealing the lines on Sherlock's forearm that were finally disappearing. He raised the fading scars to his mouth and kissed Sherlock's wrist. "I love you."

Sherlock smirked at him. "I know that, you big idiot." And he pulled John closer, pressing his husband's lips to his.

•••

AN: Oh dear goodness. You thought Sherlock had died at the end of the last chapter? I guess we should have said what 'Holmes' died. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! A big apology to Harliesue who I tricked into thinking that Sherlock was dead this entire time. Whoops!

"Who the hell gave Satan the wi-fi password?!"

Please review!


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